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Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2008  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/crownjewelsorgemOOnoYtrich 


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ROWN  JEWELS 

ill   GEMS  OF  LITERATURE 
m         ART  AND  MUSIC 


BEING 

CHOICE    SELECTIONS    FROM    THE    WRITINGS    AND     MUSICAL 

PRODUCTIONS  OF  THE  MOST  CELEBRATED  AUTHORS, 

FROM  THE  EARLIEST  TIMES  : 

COMPRISING 

GEMS  FOR  THE   HOME  CIRCLE;  NARRATIVES,  BALLADS,  SONGS;   POEMS  OF  FRIEND- 
SHIP   AND   LOVE;    BRILLIANT  DESCRIPTIONS  OF  THE    BEAUTIES    OF    NATURE 
AND  RURAL  LIFE ;  LYRICS  OF  HEROISM,  ADVENTURE  AND  PATRIOTISM ; 
JEWELS  OF   SENTIMENT;    CHOICE  SELECTIONS  FROM   RELIGIOUS 
LITERATURE,     SORROW     AND     ADVERSITY,      CHILDHOOD 
AND   YOUTH;    DESCRIPTIONS  OF   PERSONS,    PLACES 
AND    HISTORIC    EVENTS;    MASTERPIECES    OF 
DRAMATIC      LITERATURE;      POETICAL 
ROMANCE;    WIT,    HUMOR,     ETC. 

INCLUDING   A   BIOGRAPHY   OF   THE   AUTHORS. 

THE    WHOLE    FORMING 


COMPILED   BY 

HENRY  DAVENPORT  NORTHROP,  D.  D.. 

AUTHOR    OF 
MARVELOUS    WONDERS   OF    THE    WHOLE   WORLD,"    "  EARTH,  SEA    AND    SKY,"  Etc.,  Etc. 


EMBELLISHED    WITH    NUMEROUS    SUPERB    STEEL-PLATE    ENGRAVINGS. 


MINNEAPOLIS,  MINN.: 

NORTHWESTERN  PUBLISHING  CO., 

400   THIRD  STREET,    SOUTH. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1887,  by 

J.  K.  JONES. 

In  the  OflSce  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington,  D.  C. 

Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1888,  by 

J.  R.  JONES, 

In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington,  D.  C. 


11^ 


i 


INTRODUCTION. 


"Crown  Jewels"  has  been  pronounced  the  most  captivating  title  ever  given  to 
any  book,  and  this  title  is  in  keeping  with  the  Jewels  of  Thought,  Feeling  and  Sen- 
timent, which  sparkle  on  every  page.  This  very  attractive  and  valuable  work  em- 
braces all  that  is  of  the  greatest  interest  in  Poetry,  Prose,  Art  and  Song.  It  covers 
the  whole  field  of  literature  in  all  languages  from  the  earliest  times. 

Those  Gems  which  have  fascinated  the  world  with  their  beauty  are  here  gath- 
ered into  one  magnificent  cluster.  The  most  brilliant  Authors  of  every  age,  in 
every  department  of  literature,  shine  resplendent  in  one  marvelous  galaxy.  The 
book  is  a  popular  educator,  a  vast  treasur)--  of  the  noblest  thoughts  and  sentiments, 
and  its  Jewels  should  sparkle  in  every  home  throughout  the  land. 

As  Crown  Jewels  is  pre-eminently  a  home  book,  it  is  appropriate  that  its  first 
department  should  be  entitled  the  Home  Circle.  Here,  gathered  into  one  rich 
and  beautiful  bouquet,  are  fascinating  descriptions  of  the  pleasures  of  home  life. 
"The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night,"  by  Robert  Burns;  Daniel  Webster's  description 
of  the  "Old  Log  Cabin ; "  the  song  of  the  "Merry  Christmas  Time,"  by  Sir  Wal- 
ter Scott,  and  the  "Old  Familiar  Faces,"  by  Charles  Lamb,  are  but  specimens  of 
the  captivating  productions  which  embellish  this  part  of  the  book. 

The  next  department  is  Narratives  and  Ballads.  There  are  songs  that  have 
touched  the  hearts  of  whole  nations.  Every  phase  of  human  life  has  been  pictured 
in  words  and  rhythms  that  entrance  the  reader.  This  part  of  the  work  may  be 
described  as  stories  told  in  verse — such  as  "The  Village  Blacksmith,"  by  Long- 
fellow; "Bingen  on  the  Rhine,"  by  Mrs.  Norton;  and  the  "Sands  of  Dee,"  by 
Charles  Kingsley.  The  narrative  portion  of  the  work  contains  everything  of 
special  interest  stored  in  ancient  or  modern  literature. 

Under  the  title  of  Love  and  Friendship  is  a  vast  collection  of  heart-poems. 
It  is  impossible,  for  want  of  space,  to  mention  even  the  names  of  these  beautiful 
gems.  Here  are  the  finest  things  written  by  Moore,  Byron,  Goldsmith,  Shake- 
speare, Wordsworth,  Ingelow,  Tennyson,  and  a  host  of  others.  The  great  love 
passion — its  joys,  its  pathos,  its  hopes,  its  disappointments,  its  all-controlling  power 
— throbs  in  every  line. 

We  come  next  to  the  Beauties  of  Nature — which  is  the  native  field  of  poetry. 
The  reader,  looking  with  the  eyes  of  the  poet,  is  spell-bound  amidst  the  beauties 
of  creation.  He  beholds  landscapes  of  marvelous  loveliness;  and  gazes  up  at  the 
midnight  heavens  "where  blossom  the  lovely  stars,  the  forget-me-nots  of  the 
angels."    With  Thomson  he  beholds  the  magnificent  panorama  of  the  seasons ;  with 


o 


09 


Lowell  he  breathes  the  sweet  air  of  leafy  June,  when  "heaven  tries  the  earth  if  it  be 
in  tune."     Birds  and  fountains  sing  to  him,  and  the  universe  is  clothed  with  new  life. 

The  next  part,  entided  Heroism  and  Adventure,  is  remarkably  spirited  and 
attractive.  Narratives  in  both  prose  and  poetry,  excite  to  the  highest  pitch  the 
reader's  admiration  for  the  heroic  and  give  this  part  of  Crown  Jewels  an  absorbing 
interest.  "The  Heart  of  the  Bruce,"  "The  Draw-Bridge  Keeper,"  "The  Fate  of  Vir- 
ginia," by  Lord  Macaulay,  "Jim  Bludso,"  and  many  other  heroic  adventures,  make 
die  most  daring  creations  of  romance  seem  tame  and  powerless  in  comparison. 

Sea  Pictures  comprise  the  most  vivid  descriptions  of  the  sea  ever  gathered 
into  one  volume.  The  jolly  tar  who  braves  the  dangers  of  the  great  deep,  the 
treasures  of  coral  and  pearl  hidden  beneath  the  waves,  the  light-house  that  guides 
the  weary  mariner,  the  awful  grandeur  of  the  ocean — these  and  many  other  themes, 
treated  by  the  most  brilliant  authors,  render  Sea  Pictures  peculiarly  fascinating. 

Under  the  title  of  Patriotism  and  Freedom  the  patriotic  songs  and  epics 
which  have  aroused  nations  and  helped  to  gain  victories  are  collected. 

Following  these  stirring  appeals  to  the  patriotic  emotions  is  an  unrivaled  col- 
lection sf  the  world's  best  thoughts,  classified  under  Sentiment  and  Reflection. 
Here  are  the  famous  "Elegy"  of  Gray;  Longfellow's  "Psalm  of  Life";  "Evening 
Bells,"  by  Moore  ;  "The  Last  Leaf,"  by  Holmes;  the  song  of  the  "Irish  Famine;" 
the  "Wants  of  Man,"  by  John  Quincy  Adams;  Poe's  mystic   "Raven,"  etc.,  etc. 

Ballads  of  Labor  and  Reform  present  a  fine  collection  of  songs  and  poems 
peculiarly  appropriate  to  the  times.  Here  labor  is  dignified,  and  its  magnificent 
achievements  celebrated.  Hood's  "Song  of  the  Shirt,"  and  Charles  Mackay's 
"Good  Time  Coming,"  are  specimens  of  the  numerous  beautiful  and  touching 
productions. 

The  next  part  of  Crown  Jewels  treats  of  Rural  Life.  Here  are  exquisite  pic- 
tures of  life  in  the  country,  such  as  the  "Harvest  Song,"  by  Eliza  Cook  ;  "The 
Farmer's  Wife,"  by  Paul  Hayne;  "The  Horseback  Ride,"  by  Grace  Greenwood; 
"On  the  Banks  of  the  Tennessee,"  by  W.  D.  Gallagher;"  the  reader  follows  the 
"Ploughman,"  and  "Mowers;"  he  rambles  away  with  the  "Angler"  and  "Bare- 
foot Boy,"  and  returns  to  enjoy  the  hospitality  of  the  "  Busy  Housewife." 

A  number  of  exquisite  productions  are  classified  under  the  title  of  Sorrow 
and  Adversity.  Here  Dickens  describes  the  "  Last  Hours  of  Little  Paul  Dom- 
bey  ; "  Charles  Lewis  tells  "  Bijah's  Story;"  Mrs.  Stowe  contributes  a  beautiful 
selection  entitled  "  Only  a  Year  ;  "  Tom  Hood  with  his  "  Bridge  of  Sighs  "  makes 
the  breast  heave  and  the  lip  quiver. 

The  next  department  comprises  Persons  and  Places.  The  great  authors,  ex- 
plorers, heroes,  statesmen,  orators,  patriots,  and  painters  of  ancient  and  modern 
times  are  immortalized.  Classic  Athens  ;  sacred  Jerusalem  ;  the  golden  Orient ; 
sunny  Italy ;  Thebes,  with  her  hundred  gates  ;  Naples,  whose  every  adjacent  cliff 
"flings  on  the  clear  wave  some  image  of  delight;"  the  Isles  of  Greece,  "where 
burning  Sappho  loved  and  sung  ;  "  Russia's  village  scenes  and  Scotland's  High- 
lands and  old  abbeys,  are  all  commemorated  in  a  manner  that  entrances  the  reader. 


Then  follow  selections  relating  to  Religious  Life.  In  this  department  alone 
are  nearly  one  hundred  gems,  each  with  its  own  peculiar  beauty  and  attraction, 
by  Pope,  Cowper,  Mrs.  Sigourney,  the  Cary  sisters,  Newman,  Ella  Wheeler,  and 
scores  of  others.  The  songs  which  have  been  sung  clear  round  the  globe,  which 
have  cheered  the  desponding,  and  brought  peace  to  the  troubled,  are  here  set  in 
attractive  array. 

Under  the  title  of  Childhood  and  Youth  is  an  admirable  collection  of  pieces 
interesting  to  young  persons.  Children  and  young  people  will  read  something, 
and  only  the  best  reading  matter  should  be  placed  in  their  hands. 

In  Dramatic  Selections  are  the  masterpieces  of  the  world's  great  dramatists. 
The  sublime  creations  of  Shakespeare,  Coleridge,  Knowles,  Addison,  Joanna  Bai- 
lie, and  others,  and  the  sparkling  effusions  of  Sheridan,  Jerrold,  and  their  compeers, 
are  here  presented  for  the  instruction  and  delight  of  every  reader. 

Poetical  Curiosities  and  Humorous  Readings  make  up  an  extensive  collection 
of  quaint,  curious  and  witty  productions  which  are  greatly  relished  by  all  readers. 
Irish  wit,  Scotch  wat,  German  wit,  Yankee  wit,  -and  every  other  kind  of  wit  are  given 
a  place,  and  the  great  humorists,  who  have  made  the  world  healthier  and  better  by 
making  it  laugh,  here  indulge  in  their  favorite  pastime. 

By  no  possible  arrangement  could  a  greater  variety  of  thoughts  and  topics  be 
presented,  while  the  Gems,  both  those  that  are  new  and  those  that  are  old  favorites, 
are  the  finest,  and  most  captivating  in  the  literature  of  all  ages. 

In  addition  to  the  myriad  of  attractive  features  already  named,  the  work  is  a 
Treasury  of  the  Choicest  Music.  A  great  variety  of  songs  and  popular  pieces  by 
authors  whose  fame  fills  the  earth,  affords  a  source  of  entertainment  for  the  home. 
These  have  been  selected  with  great  care,  and  charm  all  lovers  of  music.  The  aim 
has  been  to  insert  only  the  finest  melodies,  the  sweetest  songs  that  musical  genius 
has  produced.  ^^ 

This  valuable  work  is  elegantly  embellished  with  a  Galaxy  of  the  most 
Beautiful  Steel  Plate  Engravings,  by  artists  of  world-wide  renown.  The  most 
entrancing  scenes  are  reproduced  in  these  charming  pages,  forming  a  magnificent 
picture  gallery.  Crown  Jewels  is  a  work  of  Art,  and  each  of  its  many  superb 
illustrations  is  a  beauty  and  a  delight. 

The  book  contains  a  Biographical  Dictionary,  giving  in  concise  form  those 
facts  concerning  the  most  renowned  authors  which  the  reading  public  desire  to 
know.     This  is  a  very  valuble  feature  of  the  book. 

3 


PtLblisher's  Announcement. 


'HIS  magnificent  work,  which  comprises  many  books  in  one  volume,  is  a 
vast  treasury  of  the  Choicest  Gems  of  English  Literature,  in  prose  and 
poetry.  It  contains  those  resplendent  jewels  of  thought,  feeling  and 
sentiment  which  fascinate,  instruct  and  entertain  the  reader. 

The  following  are  only  a  few  of  the  many  reasons  why  Crown  Jewels  is 
more  complete  than  any  other  work  : 

First.  The  elegant  appearance  of  the  work  recommends  it.  It  is  indeed 
a  beautiful  book. 

Second.  The  selections  possess  the  very  highest  merit,  and  are  the  best  in 
every  department  of  literature.  They  are  admirably  suited  to  every  home  and 
to  every  class  of  readers. 

Third.  No  work  so  comprehensive  and  with  such  great  variety  of  selections 
was  ever  before  published.  It  contains  more  than  looo  gems  from  500  of  the 
world's  most  famous  authors. 

Fourth.  The  great  masterpieces  and  favorite  productions,  which  all  persons 
desire  to  possess,  are  gathered  into  this  superb  volume. 

Fifth.  It  contains  the  latest  and  most  fascinating  pieces  of  the  popular 
writers  of  the  day. 

Sixth.  The  arrangement  is  admirable.  There  are  eighteen  departments, 
thus  affording  a  whole  library  of  the  choicest  literature  in  one  volume. 

Seventh.  There  is  something  charming,  instructive  and  entertaining  for 
old  and  young  alike. 

Eighth.  The  book  is  a  treasury  of  the  most  captivating  music,  containing 
a  large  collection  of  the  finest  melodies  and  sweetest  songs. 

Ninth.     The  work  is  furnished  with  a  Biographical  Dictionary  of  the  authors. 

Tenth.  It  is  embellished  with  a  galaxy  of  magnificent  Steel-Plate  Engravings, 
which  are  alone  worth  the  whole  cost  of  the  book.     It  is  a  superb  work  of  art. 

Eleventh.  The  Prospectus  is  very  attractive,  and  shows  at  a  glance  the 
great  superiority  of  this  book  over  other  similar  works  that  are  illustrated  with 
cheap  wood-cuts. 

Twelfth.  The  price  for  such  a  rare-  volume  is  very  low,  and  brings  it 
within  the  reach  of  all. 


POETICSL  CONTENTS. 


THE  HOME  CIRCLE. 


Page. 


Love  of  Home James  Montgomery  17 

Sweet  Home John  Howard  Payne  17 

Heaven  on  Earth Thomas  Hood  17 

If  Thou  Wert  by  My  Side,  My  Love 

Reginald  Heber  17 

Associations  of  Home Walter  Conder  18 

The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night Robert  Burns  18 

The  Happiest  Spot Oliver  Goldsmith  19 

Friendliness  of  a  Fire Mary  Howitt  19 

Love  Lightens  Labor 20 

Rock  Me  to  Sleep Elizabeth  Akers  Allen  20 

Nobody's  Child Phila  A.  Case  20 

Kisses Elizabeth  Akers  Allen  21 

The  Old  House Louise  Chandler  Moulton  21 

The  Dearest  Spot  of  Earth  is  Home 

W.  T.  Wrighlon  21 

Which  Shall  It  Be.. 22 

Learning  to  Pray Mary  E.  Dodge  22 

The  House  in  the  Meadow 

Louise  Chandler  Moulton  23 

Conduct  at  Home Hannah  More  23 

My  Old  Kentucky  Yionx^... Stephen  Collins  Foster  24 

The  Worn  Wedding  Ring...  William  Cox  Bennett  24 

Filial  Love Lord  Byron  24 

John  Anderson,  My  Jo Robert  Burns  25 

O,  Lay  Thy  Hand  in  Mine,  Ti^zs...  Gerald  Massey  25 

Th  e  Absent  Ones Charles  M.  Dickinson  25 

A  Picture Charles  Gamage  Easttnan  26 

The  Poet's  Song  to  His  Wife 

Bryan  Waller  Procter  [Barry  Cornwall)  26 

Ode  to  Solitude Alexander  Pope  26 

My  Wife's  a  Winsome,  Wee  Thing. ..Robert  Burns  26 

The  Reconciliation Alfred  Tennyson  26 

I  Knew  by  the  Smoke  That  So  Gracefully  Curled 

Thomas  Moore  27 

Adam  to  Eve .John  Milton  27 

A  Wish Saynuel  Rogers  27 

The  Happy  Man .James  Thompson  28 

My  Mother's  Picture William  Cowper  28 

Christmas  Time Sir  Walter  Scott  28 

The  Old  Hearthstone Sarah  J.  Hale  29 

The  Old  Folks  at  Home.. ..Stephen  Collins  Foster  29 

Homeward  Bound Nathaniel  P.  Willis  29 

I  Remember,  I  Remember Thomas  Hood  30 

The  Patter  of  Little  Feet 30 

The  Fireside Nathaniel  Cotton  30 

The  Happy  Marriage Edward  Moore  31 

Be  Kind 31 

The  Old  Familiar  Faces Charles  Lamb  31 


Page. 

The  Wife Elizabeth  Oakes  Smith  32 

Household  Treasures Thomas  Greet  32 

A  Home  in  the  Heart Eliza  Cook  32 

Farmer  Gray's  Photograph 32 

The  Graves  of  a  Household 

Felicia  Dorothea  Hemans  33 

The  Old  Arm-Chair Eliza  Cook  33 

The  Stream  of  Life 34 

Wife,  Children,  and  Friends 

William  Robert  Spencer  34 

Home  Voices ..„ 34 

My  Little  Wife ^ 35 

Good  Bye,  Old  House Millie  C.  Potneroy  35 

A  Mother's  Influence Arthur  Henry  Hallam  35 

The  Wife  to  Her  Husband 36 

Thanksgiving  Day Thomas  Berry  Smith  36 

The  Three  Dearest  Words Mary  J.  Muckle  36 

NARRATIVES  AND  BALLADS 

Vision  of  Belshazzar Lord  Byron  37 

The  Village  Blacksmith 

ITenry  Wadsworth  I^ongfellow  V] 

Young  Lochinvar Sir  Walter  Scott  38 

The  Light  of  Other  Days Thomas  Moore  38 

Auld  Lang  Syne Robert  Burns  39 

The  Nantucket  Skipper .Jam.es  Thomas  Fields  39 

On  the  Funeral  of  Charles  I. .  IVilliam  Lisle  Bowles  39 
The   Painter  Who  Pleased  Nobody  and  Every- 
body  .John  Gay  40 

Little  Nell's  Funeral Charles  Dickens  40 

Comin'  Through  the  Rye 41 

The  Vagabonds.... .John  T.  Trowbridge  41 

Over  the  Hill  to  the  Poor  house.  Will  M.  Carleton  42 

Song Thomas  Hood  42 

In  the  Summer  Twilight 

Harriet  Prescott  Spofford  43 

Lord  Ullin's  Daughter Thomas  Campbell  44 

The  Field  of  Waterloo Lord  Byron  44 

The  Pebble  and  the  Acorn Hannah  F.  Gould  45 

The  Shepherd  Boy Letitia  E.  Landon  45 

Maud  Muller .John  G.  U'Tiitlier  46 

Bingen  on  the  Rhine...  Caroline  Elizabeth  Norton  47 

The  Sands  of  Dee Charles  ICingsiey  48 

A  Name  in  the  Sand Hannah  F.  Gould  48 

Over  the  Hills  from  the  Poor-house 

May  Mignonette  48 

Mona's  Waters 49 

The  Wreck  of  the  Hesperus 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  50 

After  Blenheim Robert  Southey  51 

6 


CONTENTS. 


Page. 

Alonzo  the  Brave  and  the  Fair  Imogene 

Mattheiv  Gregory  Lewis  52 

Old  Grimes Albert  G.  Greene  53 

The  Sleeping  Sentinel. ..Fra«m  De  Hces  Janvier  53 

The  Pied  Piper  of  Hamehn Robert  Browning  55 

How  They  Brought  the  Good  News  From  Ghent 

to  Aix Robert  Browtiing  55 

Curfew  Must  Not  Ring  To-night 

Rose  Hartwick  Thorpe  58 

The  Miser  Who  Lost  His  Treasure 59 

The  Death  of  Napoleon Isaac  McLellan  59 

Faithless  Nelly  Gray Thomas  Hood  60 

The  Miser's  Will George  Birdseye  60 

The  Tale  of  a  Tramp 61 

Little  Golden-Hair Will  M.  Carleton  61 

The  Wonderful  "One  Hoss  Shay" 62 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes.  62 

The  Drummer-Boy's  Burial 63 

LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP. 

Thou'rt  All  the  World  to  Me Gerald  Massey  65 

The  Queen William  Cox  Beitneit  65 

The  Vale  of  Avoca Thomas  Moore  65 

Annabel  Lee Edgar  Allen  Poe  66 

To  Mary  in  Heaven Robert  Burns  66 

The  Sailor's  Farewell Edgar  Thompson  66 

Apostrophe  to  Love Robert  Pollok  67 

The  Sailor's  Return Edward  Thompson  67 

Yes  or  No Elizabeth  Barrett  B owning  67 

The  Heart's  Devotion Edward  Bulwer  Lytton  67 

Not  Ours  the  Vows Bernard  Barton  67 

Had  I  a  Heart  for  Falsehood  Framed 

Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan  68 

The  Minstrel's  Song  in  Ella...  Thomas  Chattcrton  68 

The  Hare-Bell Charles  Swain  68 

Forsaken Robert  Browning'  69 

The  Lover's  Departure Sir  Walter  Scott  60 

The  Smack  in  School W.  P.  Palmer  70 

Fly  to  the  Desert,  Fly  with  Me Thomas  Moore  70 

The  Quiver Philip  James  Bailey  70 

Othello's  Defence William  Shakespeare  70 

Friendship Robert  Blair  71 

Euphrosyne Matthew  Arnold  71 

They  Sin  Who  Tell  Us  Love  Can  Die " 

Robert  Southey  72 

To  His  Wife Thomas  Haynes  Bayley  72 

Lament  of  the  trish  Emigrant 

Helen  Selina  Sheridan  72 

The  Fickleness  of  Phyllis William  Shensto7ie  73 

Love's  Young  Dream Thomas  Moore  73 

Maid  of  Athens Lord  Byron  73 

First  Love's  Recollections ,...John  Clare  73 

Love  and  Friendship William  Leggett  74 

The  Heavenly  Flame 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  74 

Bill  Mason's  Bride F.  Bret  Harte  74 

Bedouin  Song Bayard  Taylor  74 

'Tis  the  Last  Rose  of  Summer Thotnas  Moore  75 


Page. 

Gentlest  Girl Dean  Alford   75 

The  Parting  Kiss Robert  Dodsley  75 

No  Heart  Without  its  Mate Maria  Brooks  75 

On  an  Old  Wedding-Ring 

George  Washington  Doane  76 

Edwin  and  Angelina Oliver  Goldsmith  76 

All  for  Love Lord  Byron  78 

Love  Will  Find  out  the  Way 78 

We  Have  Been  Friends  Together 

Caroline  Elizabeth  Norton  78 

Sally  in  Our  Alley Henry  Carey  78 

Amynta .SiV  Gilbert  Elliott  79 

Ben  Bolt Thomas  Dunn  English  79 

Lucy William  Wordsworth  79 

Pearly  Tears Richard  Henry  Stoddard  79 

The  Time  of  Roses Thomas  Hood  80 

Love's  Philosophy Percy  Bysshe  Shelley  80 

No  Jewelled  Beauty  Is  My  Love 80 

The  Low-Backed  Car Samuel  Lover  81 

If  I  Had  Known 81 

When  Sparrows  Build Jean  Ingelow  81 

Severed  Friendship Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge  82 

Rory  O'More Samuel  Lover  82 

The  Pledge  of  Love 82 

A  Milkmaid's  Song Sydney  Dobell  83 

Fetching  Water  from  the  Well 83 

Kitty  of  Coleraine 84 

Sweet  Meeting  of  Desires CoveJitry  Palmare  84 

The  Lover's  Coming Jean  Ingelow  8; 

Summer  Days 84 

Meeting Robert  Browning  85 

Forget  Thee? John  Moultrie  85 

Genevieve Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge  86 

The  Courtin' Jatnes  Russell  Lowell  87 

Constancy Allan  Ramsay  87 

Gone  Before ....Phoebe  Gary  88 

Happy  Matches Isaac   Watts  88 

The  Dead  Friend Alfred  Tennyson  89 

A  Benediction .John  Greenlief  Wliittier  89 

To  a  friend Ralph  Wuldo  Emerson  89 

Parted  Friends James  Montgomery  90 

Anne  Hathaway 90 

The  Widow's  Wooer Emma  C.  Embury  90 

On  the  Death  of  a  Friend Fitz  Greene  Halleck  91 

The  Memory  of  the  Heart Daniel  Webster  91 

Robin  Adair Lady  Caroline  Keppel  91 

The  Maid's  Remonstrance Thomas  Campbell  91 

No  Time  Like  the  Old  Time 92 

The  Maiden  Sat  at  Her  Busy  Wheel 

Emma  C.  Embury  92 

Afton  Water Robert  Bums  92 

The  Wakeful  Heart Dennar  Stewart  93 

Minnie  Adair Lyman  Goodman  93 

Smile  and  Never  Heed  Me Charles  Swain  93 

The  Lass  of  Richmond  Hill .James  Upton  93 

United  Lives Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich  93 

Oh,  Tell  Me  notof  Lofty  Fate... £';«;«a  C.  Embury  94 

Somebody ~ 94 


CON  i  ENTS. 


Page. 

Though  Lest  to  Sight  to  Memory  Dear 

Thomas  Moore  94 

Evening  Song Sidney  Lanier  94 

A  Maiden's  Ideal  of  a  Husband Henry  Carey  94 

New  Loveliness Edward  Pollock  95 

Sweet  and  Low Alfred  Tennyson  95 

To  a  Sister Edward  Everett  95 

The  Ring's  Motto 95 

To  Althea  from  Prison Richard  Lovelace  96 

.The  Day  is  Fixed Henry  Davenport  96 

The  Shepherd's  Lament William  Hamilton  96 

Lady  Barbara Alexander  Smith  97 

Atalanta's  Race William  Morris  97 

Place  Your  Hand  in  Mine,  Wife 

Frederick  Langbridge  99 

The  Little  Milliner Robert  Buchanan  99 

-The  Exchange Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge  loi 

The  Miller's  Daughter Alfred  Tentiy^ati  101 

A  Love  Knot Nora  Perry  102 

A  Spinster's  Stint Alice  Cary  102 

O,  Do  Not  Wanton  with  Those  Eyes..^^«  Jonson  102 

A  Nymph's  Reply Sir  Walter  Raleigh  102 

Blest  as  the  Immortal  Gods Ambrose  Phillips  103 

The  Whistle Robert  Story  103 

A  Maiden  wilh  a  Milking-Pail Jean  Ingelow  103 

The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes John  Keats  104 

Farewell  to  His  Wife Lord  Byron  107 

Black-Eyed  Susan John  Ga^  108 

The  Bloom  was  on  the  Alder,  and  the  Tassel  on 

the  Corn Don  Piatt  109 

Lament Sir  Walter  Scott  109 

We  parted  in  Silence Julia  Crawford  109 

Love  and  Time .Denis  Florence  MacCarthy  no 

Hero  toLeander Alfred  Tennyson  iii 

Farewell !  but  Whenever Thomas  Moore  in 

BEAUTIES  OF  NATURE. 

The  Greenwood Williatn  Lisle  Bowles  1 1 2 

Thanatopsis Williatn  Cullen  Bryant  112 

Ode  on  the  Spring Thomas  Gray  113 

The  Late  Spring Louise  Chandler  Moulton  113 

God's  First  Temples William  Cullen  Bryant  113 

In  June Nora  Perry  114 

May  Eve.  Or  Kate  of  Aberdeen 

John   Cunningham  1 14 

March William  Cullen  Bryant  114 

They  Come  !    The  Merry  Summer  Months 

William  Motherwell  115 

April Henry   Wadsworth  Longfellow  115 

The  Vernal  Season Anna  L.  Barbauld  116 

The  Water !    The  Water !...  William  Motherwell  1 16 

May James  G.  Percival  116 

The  Summer Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  117 

The  Midnight  Wind William  Motherwell  117 

Wild  Flowers Robert  Nicoll  117 

To  the  Dandelion James  Russell  Lowell  117 

The  Ivy  Green Charles  Dickens  118 

To  a  Daisy James  Montgomery  118 


Page. 

The  Changing  World Charles  of  Orleans  118 

On  a  Sprig  of  Heath Marian  Grant  119 

Willow  Song Felicia  Dorothea  Hemans  119 

The  Wandering  V^'m6...Felicia  Dorothea  Hemans  119 

The  Rose Isaac  Watts  119 

Chorus  of  Flowers Leigh  Hunt  119 

May  Day John  Wolcot  120 

To  the  Bramble  Flower Ebenezer  Elliott  120 

A  Day  in  June James  Russell  Lowell  120 

The  Primeval  Forest 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  120 

To  an  Eaily  Primrose ..Henry  Kirke  White  121 

The  Lily Mary  Tighe  121 

The  Brave  Old  Oak... /j'(?«;^'  Fothcrgill  Chorlcy  121 

The  Cloud Percy  Bysshe  Shelley  122 

Come  to  These  Scenes  of  Peace 

William,  Lisle  Bowles  122 

Song  of  the  Summer  Winds George  Darley  122 

Daffodils ...William    Wordsworth  123 

Hymn  to  the  Flowers Horace  Smith  123 

American  Skies William  Cullen  Bryant  123 

Flowers — The  Gems  of  Nature.  Thomas  Campbell  124 

Recollections  of  English  Scenery..  Charlotte  Smith  1 24 

The  Grape- Vine  Swing..  William  Gilmore  Simms  124 

My  Heart  Leaps  Up William  Wordsworth  124 

The  Close  of  Spring Charlotte  Smith  125 

The  Wood-Nymph 125 

Nature's  Chain «. Alexander  Pope  125 

The  Little  Beach  Bird Richard  Henry  Dana  125 

The  Swallow Charlotte  Smith  125 

Robert  of  Lincoln William  Cullen  Bryant  126 

May  to  April Philip  Frenau  126 

Song  of  Wood-Nymphs 

Bryan  Waller  Procter  {Barry  Cornwall)  126 

Answer  to  a  Child's  Question 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge  121 

The  BoboHnk Thomas  Hill  127 

The  Katydid Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  127 

The  Departure  of  the  Nightingale 

Charlotte  Smith  127 

Address  to  the  Butterfly Samuel  Rogers  127 

The  Redbreast John  Bampfylde  127 

The  Skylark .James  Hogg  128 

The  Cuckoo William,  Wordsworth  128 

Night  Birds Alonzo  Lewis  128 

The  Mocking  Bird  Calling  Her  Mate ^^ 

Walt  Whitman  /128 

The  Stormy  Petrel Ssj 

The  Thrush's  Nest .John  Clare  129 

To  a  Waterfowl William  Cullen  Bryant  129 

The  Barn  Owl Samuel  Butler  129 

The  Squirrel William  Cowper  129 

To  the  Cuckoo .John  I^ogan  130 

The  Belfry  Pigeon Nathaniel  Parker  Willis  130 

The  Eagle .James  G.  Percival    130 

The  Lion's  Ride Ferdinand  Freiligrath  131 

Lambs  at  Play Robert  Bloomfield    131 

A  Song  in  the  Grove .James  Thompson  132 


CONTENTS. 


Page. 

Summer  Longings Denis  Florence  MacCarthy  132 

On  a  Goldfinch William  Cowper  132 

The  Robin Harrison  Weir  132 

The  Blood  Horse 

Bryan  Mealier  Procter  {Barry  Cornwall)  133 

September  Rain Thomas  Mc Keller  133 

No Thomas  Hood  133 

Autumn Thomas  Hood  134 

Woods  in  Winter.  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  134 

September George  Arnold  134 

Winter \ Friedrich  W.  Krummacher  134 

The  Little  Beach  Bird ..Richard  Henry  Dana  135 

The  Death  of  the  Flowers..  William  Cullen  Bryant  135 

November. Hartley  Coleridge  135 

What  the  Winds  Bring ' 

Edmund  Clarence  Stedman  135 

The  Snowdrop 

Bryan  Waller  Procter  {Barry  Cornwall)  136 

The  Snow  Storm Ralph  Waldo  Emerson  136 

It  Snows Sarah  Josepha  Hale  136 

The  Crickets Harriet  McEwen  Kimball  137 

Snow-Flakes Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  137 

The  Sleigh  Ride Edmund  Clarence  Stedman  138 

Christmas  in  the  Woods Harrison  Weir  138 

Morning .John  Cunninghatn  138 

A  Calm  Eve George  Croly  138 

Celestial  Light .John  Milton  139 

The  Two  April  Mornings...  William  Wordsworth  139 

Day  is  Dying 

Marian  Evans  Lewes  Cross  { George  Eliot)  139 

Advancing  Morn .John  Bampfylde  140 

A  Winter  Landscape .James  Thotnpson  140 

A  Hymn  to  the  Seasons .James  Thompson  140 

The  Advent  of  Evening Alfred  B.  Street  141 

Moonrise Ernest  Jones  141 

Dover  Cliff. William.  Shakespeare  141 

A  Lowering  Eve Geoige  Croly  142 

The  Tempestuous  Evening .John  Scott  142 

The  Moon  Was  A-Waning .James  Hogg  142 

Night Edward  Young  142 

To  a  Star Lucretia  Maria  Davidson  143 

The  Night  Flowering  Cereus 143 

On  Re  crossing  the  Rocky  Mountains 

John  C.  Fremont  143 

The  Evening  Star .John  Leyden  144 

The  Scenes  of  Boyhood .John  Logan  144 

The  Shepherd-Swain .James  Beattie  144 

Alpine  Heights Friederich  W.   Krummacher  145 

To  a  Comet .James  Hogg  145 

The  Pumpkin .John  Grecnleaf  Whittier  145 

To  Seneca  Lake .James  Gates  Percival  146 

The  Cataract  of  Lodore Robert  Southey  146 

The  Rhine Lord  Byron  147 

Song  of  the  River Charles  Kingsley  147 

Tweedside IVilliam  Crawford  148 

Niagara '. Lydia  H.  Sigoumey  148 

The  Fountain .James  Russell  Lowell  148 

The  Fall  of  Niagara .John  G.  C.  Brainard  149 


Page. 

Invocation  to  Rain  in  Summer 

William  Cox-  Bennett  149 

The  Brook-Side Lord  Houghton  149 

Ode  to  Leven  Water T.  George  Smollett  149 

The  Rainbow William  Wordsworth  150 

Song  of  the  Brook Alfred  Tennyson  150 

Little  Streams Mary  Howitt  150 

The  Cataract  and  the  Streamlet...^^r«a:rrf  Barton  151 

Showers  in  Spring .James  Thompson  151 

The  Angler's  Song Isaac  McLellan  151 

Hymn  of  Nature William.  B.  Peabody  152 

Signs  of  Rain Edward  Jenner  153 

Before  the  Rain Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich  153 

After  the  Rain Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich  153 

The  Angler's  Wish Izaak  Walton  153 

Apostrophe  to  the  Ocean Lord  Byron  153 

Sunset  at  Norham  Castle Sir  Walter  Scott  154 

The  Iceberg .J.  O.  Rockwell  154 

Mount  Washington  ;  The  Loftiest  Peak  of  the 

White  Mountains Grenville  Mellen  155 

Palestine Thomas  Moore  155 

The  Northern  Lights..-ff(f«;a);«« />-a«^/z«  Taylor  155 

The  Supernatural .Jam.es  Thompson  155 

Hymn  on  Solitude .James  Thompson  156 

To  a  Wild  Deer John  Wilson  156 

The  Sierras .Joaquin  Miller  156 

The  Sea-Breeze  and  the  Scarf. 

Ella  Wheeler  ll'ilcox  157 

Under  the  Leaves Albert  Lcighton  15? 

To  the  Skylark Percy  Bysshe  Shelley  157 

When  the  Hounds  of  Spring 

Algernon  Charles  Sivinburne  158 

Remonstrance  with  the  Snails 159 

Almond  Blossoms Edwin  Arnold  159 

The  Grasshopper  and  Cricket .John  Keats  160 

The  Planting  of  the  Apple  Tree 

William.  Cullen  Bryant  160 

The  Maize William  W.  Fosdick  160 

Winter  Pictures .James  Russell  Lowell  '161 

The  Midnight  Ocean .John  Wilson  162 

Spring  in  the  South Henry  Nimrod  163 

Three  Summer  Studies .James  Warren  Hope  163 

A  Snow  Storm Charles  Gamage  Eastman  163 

View  from  the  Euganean  Hills,  North  Italy 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley  164 

The  Winged  Worshippers Charles  Sprague  166 

O  Winter  !  Wilt  Thou  Never  Go  f.. ...David  Gray  166 

The  Heath  Cock .Joanna  Baillie  166 

Moonlight  on  the  Prairie 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  167 

God  Everywhere  in  Nature Carlos   Wilcox  167 

HEROISM  AND  ADVENTURE. 

Lost  in  the  Snow 168 

John  Maynard Horatio  Alger,  Jr.  168 

The  Diverting  History  of  John  Gilpin 169 

William  Cowper  169 

Fall  of  Tecumseh 17a 


CONTENTS. 


Page. 

The  Engineer's  Story 172 

The  Main  Truck:  or,  A  Leap  for  Life 

C  C.  Colton  173 

The  Fate  of  Virginia Lord  Macaulay  173 

Johnny  Bartholomew 

Thomas  Dunn  English  175 

The  French  Army  Retreating  from  Moscow 

George  Croly  175 

Jim  Bludso .John  Hay  176 

Death  of  Gaudentis 177 

The  Battle  of  Ivry Lord  Macaulay  177 

The  Draw- Bridge  Keeper Henry  Abbey  178 

On  Board  the  Cumberland,  March  7,  1862 

George  H  Boker  179 

The  Great  Discovery FredeiHc  Schiller  j8i 

Sheridan's  Ride Thomas  Buchanan  Read  181 

Nerval .John  Home  182 

The  Ride  of  Paul  Venarez 182 

The  Relief  of  Lucknow Robert  T.  S.  Lowell  183 

By  tlie  Alma  River , 

Dinah  Maria  Mulock  Craik  184 

The  Trooper's  Death R.  IV.  Raymojid  184 

Balaklava Alexa^ider  Beaufort  Meek  185 

Cavalry  Song Edmund  Clarence  Stedman  185 

The  Nobleman  and  the  Pensioner 

Charles  T.  Brooks  186 

My  Wife  and  Child Henry  R.  Jackson  186 

Monterey Charles  Fenno  Hoffman  187 

The  Heart  of  the  Bruce 

William.  Edmundstone  Aytoun  187 

Hudibras'  Sword  and  Dagger Samuel  Butler  189 

Flodden  Field Sir  Walter  Scott  190 

Naseby Lord  Macaulay  192 

Bannockburn Robert  Bums  193 

Battl  e  of  the  Baltic Thmnas  Campbell  1 94 

A  Court  Lady 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning  194 

Battle  of  Wyoming  and  Death  of  Gertrude 

Thomas  Campbell  195 

Cadyow  Castle Sir  Walter  Scott  197 

James  Fitz-James  and  Ellen Sir  Walter  Scott  199 

The  Sea  Cave... Lord  Byron  201 

Bristowe  Tragedy  ;  or,  the  Death  of  Sir  Charles 

Bawdin Thomas  Chatterton  201 

The  Forging  of  the  Anchor 

Samuel  Ferguson  205 

The  Battle  of  Alexandria 

James  Montgomery  206 

The  Ballad  of  Agincourt Michael  Drayton  207 

Ye  Mariners  of  Engl  md Thomas  Campbell  208 

The  Unreturning  Brave Lord  Byron  20S 

A'fred  the  Harper .John  Sterling  209 

The  Wild  Huntsman Sir  Walter  Scott  210 

The  Old  Sergeant 

Forceythe  Willson  212 

Wreck  of  the  "Grace  of  Sutherland" 

Jean  Lngelow  214 

George  Nidiver 215 


SEA  PICTURES. 


Pace 


How's  My  Boy? Sydney  Dobell    216 

All's  Well Thomas  Dibdin    216 

The  Sea-Bird's  Song .John  G.  C.  Brainard    216 

The  Mariner's  Dream William  Dimond    217 

The  Treasures  of  the  Deep „ 

Felicia  Dorothea  Hemans    217 

To  Certain  Golden  Fishes Hartley  Coleridge    218 

Our  Boat  to  the  Waves j.. 

William  Ellery  Channing    218 

The  Sea 

Bryan  Waller  Procter  {Barry  Cornwall)    218 

The  Light-House Thomas  Moore    219 

A  Wet  Sheet  and  a  Flowing  Sea 

Allan  Cunningham    219 

The  Minute-Gun R.  S.  Sharpe    219 

Twilight  at  Saa Amelia  B.  Welby    219 

Ocean Robert  Follok    219 

The  Tempest James  Thomas  Fields    220 

The  Bay  of  Biscay Andrew  Cherry    220 

The  Sea-Limits Dante  Gabriel  Rosetti    220 

On  the  Beach IVilliam  Wiiitehead    222 

By  the  Sea WUliam  Wordsworth    222 

On  the  Loss  of  "The  Royal  George" 

William  Cowper    222 

The  Shipwreck IVilliam  Falconer    233 

The  Sailor's  Consolation William  Pitt    223 

The  Disappointed  Lover 

Algernon  Charles  Swinburne    223 

The  Long  Voyage Sam  Slick,  Jr.     224 

Dover  Beach Mattliew  Arnold    224 

Address  to  the  Ocean 

Bryan  Waller  Procter  {Barry  Cornwall)     224 

The  Sea-Shore William  Wordsworth    225 

The  Co-al  Grove .James  Gates  Percival    225 

The  Inchcape  Rock Robert  Southey    225 

ToSea! Thomas  Lovell  Beddoes    226 

Song  of  the  Emigrants  in  Bermuda 

Andrew  Marvell    226 

Stanzas  on  thi  S^.i Bernard  Barton    226 

Saa-Weed Cornelius  George  Fenner    226 

The  Tar  for  All  Weathers Charles  Dibdin    227 

The  "Atlantic" Benjamin  F.  Taylor    227 

The  Shipwrecked  Sailors James  Montgomery    228 

The  Beacon  Light Julia  Pardoe    228 

At  Sea .John  Townseni  Trowbridge    229 

Rimeof  the  Ancient  Mariner 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge    229 

Poor  Jack : Charles  Dibdin    235 

Napoleon  and  the  British  Sailor 

Thomas  Campbell    235 

Sunrise  atSea Epes  Sargent    236 

The  Storm George  Alexander  Stevens    236 

The  Sea  in  Calm  and  Storm George  Crabbe    237 

A  Life  on  the  Ocean  Wave Epes  Sargent    237 

Night  at  Sea ...Letitia  Elizabeth  London    238 

Hilda,  Spinning 239 


10 


CONTENTS. 


Page. 

The  Chambered  Nautilus 

Oliver  Wetidell  Holmes  239 

The  Dying  Sailor George  Crabbe  240 

PATRIOTISM  AND  FREEDOM. 

The  American  Flag Joseph  Rodman  Drake  241 

The  Star-Spangled  Banner; Francis  S.  Key  241 

Freedom  Irrepressible 

Sarah  Jane  Lippincott  {Grace  Greenwood)  241 

Independence  Bell,  July  4,  1776 -  242 

Love  of  Country Sir  Walter  Scott  243 

Hail,  Columbia .Joseph  Hopkinson  243 

General  Warren's  Address .Joh7i  Pierpont  244 

The  People's  Song  of  Peace Joaquin  Miller  244 

On  Laying  the  Corner  Stone  of  the  Bunker  Hill 

Monument John  Pierpont  244 

The  Woods  of  Tennessee 244 

Barbara  Frietchie John  Greenleaf  Whittier  245 

The  Marseillaise Rougetde  Lisle  245 

An  Incident  of  the  French  Camp 

Robert  Browning  246 

Rule  Britannia James  Thomson  246 

TheBlueand  the  Gray F.  M.  Finch  247 

Landing  of  the  Pilgrim  Fathers 

Felicia  Dorothea  Heinans  248 

Battle  Hymn  of  the  Republic... y«/w  Ward  Howe  249 

The  Drummer  Boy 249 

Scotland John  Ley  den  250 

Arnold  Winkelried James  Montgomery  250 

Die  Wacht  Am  Rhein  (The  Watch  on  the  Rhine)  250 

The  Patriot's  Bride Sir  CharlesGavan  Duffy  251 

The  Pilgrims Lydia  Huntley  Sigourney  251 

The  Picket  Guard Ethelin  Elioi  Beers  252 

The  Bivouac  of  the  Dead Theodore  O' Hara  252 

SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 

The  Creole  Lover's  Song 254 

Elegy  Written  in  a  Country  Church- Yard 

Thomas  Gray  254 

Expectation Gerald  Massey  255 

APsalmof  Life... //(?«ry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  256 

Those  Evening  Bells Thotnas  Moore  256 

The  Magical  Isle 256 

True  Nobility Alfred  Tennyson  256 

A  Thing  of  Beauty  is  a  Joy  Forever... y<?^«  Keats  257 

The  Emigrant's  Farewell Thomas  Pringle  257 

A  Butterfly  on  a  Child's  Grave 

Lydia  Huntley  Sigourney  257 

Theology  in  the  Quarters J.  A.  Macon  257 

The  Widow  and  Child Alfred  Tennyson  258 

Oh  !  Why  Should  the  Spirit  of  Mortal  Be  Proud? 

William,  Kfiox  258 

Memory James  Abram  Garfield  258 

The  Weight  of  a  Word 259 

Oriental  Mysticism , Leonard  Woods  259 

The  Seasons  of  Life Thomas  John  Ouseley  260 

The  Village  School-Master Oliver  Goldsmith  261 

The  Inquiry Charles  MacKay  261 


Page. 

From  Childhood  to  Old  Age 261 

Observations  of  Rev.  Gabe  Tucker.../.  A.  Macon  362 

The  Last  Leaf Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  262 

The  Pauper's  Death- Bed..  Caroline  Anne  Southey  262 

If  I  Should  Die  To-night 263 

Better  Things George  McDonald  263 

Woman's  Will John  Godfrey  Sax e  263 

An  Angel  in  the  House Leigh  Hunt  263 

Woodman,  Spare  That  Tree 

George  Perkitts  Morris  264 

The  Long  Ago Bayard  F.  Taylor  264 

Roll  Call N.  G.  Shepherd  265 

The  Lark  and  Her  Little  Ones  with  the  Owner 

of  a  Field 265 

The  Orphan  Boy Charles  Swain  _  265 

Will  the  New  Year  Come  To-Night,  Mamma?.... 

Cora  M.  Eager  267 

The  La.st  Time  That  I  Met  Lady  Ruth 

Robert  Bulwer  Lytion  {Owen  Meredith)  267 

The  Snow-Flake    Hantiah  Flagg  Gould  268 

The  Minstrel  Girl John  Greenleaf  Whittier  268 

A  Song  of  the  Mole 

Joel  Chandler  Harris  { Uncle  Remus)  268 

Give  Me  Three  Grains  of  Corn,  Mother 

Amelia  Blanford  Edwards  268 

My  Min  1  to  Me  a  Kingdom  Is William  Byrd  269 

The  Blind  Man William.  Lisle  Bowles  271 

Somebody's  Darling Marie  R.  Lacoste  271 

Tell  Me,  Ye  Winged  Winds Charles  Mackay  i-ji 

The  Colher's  Dying  Child 272 

Wind  and  Rain Richard  Hejtry  Stoddard  272 

The  Funeral Will  M.  Carleton  272 

Nine  Graves  in  Edinboro' Irwin  Russell  273 

When  I  Beneath  the  Cold  Red  Earth  am  Sleep- 
ing  William  Motherwell  274 

Alexander's  Feast ;  or,  The  Power  of  Music 

John  Dry  den  274 

Art  and  Nature William  Shakespeare  275 

Daedalus John  Sterling  276 

Dickens  in  Camp Bret  Harte  276 

James  Melville's  Child Anita  Stuart  Mentcath  276 

Looking  into  the  Future Thomas  Campbell  277 

Only  Waiting Francis  Laughton  Mace  277 

The  Wants  of  Man John  Quincy  Adams  278 

The  Raven Edgar  Allen  Poe  279 

There's  No  Dearth  of  \\X'!\(S.n'is?,...G eraldMassey  281 

What  I  Live  For G.  Linnceus  Batiks  281 

Look  Aloft Jonathan  Lawrence  282 

The  Death  of  Absalom    Nathaniel  Parker  Willis  283 

Claude  Melnotte's  Apology  and  Defense 

Lord  Lytton  284 

The  Shaded  Water William  Gilmore  Simms  284 

The  Portrait 

Robert  Bulwer  Lytt  m  ( Owen  Meredith )  286 

A  Mother's  Wail Henry  Timrod  287 

A  Common  Thought Henry  Timrod  288 

Good-By,  Proud  World... Ralph  Waldo  Emerson  288 

The  Deserted  Village Oliver  Goldsmith  288 


CONTENTS. 


11 


Page. 

Little  Ned Robert  Buchanan  289 

The  Dance  of  Death Theodore  Martin  290 

Somebody's  Mother 290 

Wedding  Bells Charlotte  M.  Griffiths  290 

The  Weaver 292 

The  Present  Condition  of  Man  Vindicated 

Alexander  Pope  292 

The  Bridge Henry  Wadsworih  Longfellow  293 

The  Polish  Boy Ann  S.  Stephens  293 

LABOR  AND  REFORM. 

Work Mary  N.  Prescott  295 

The  Three  Fishers Charles  Kingsley  295 

The  Song  of  the  Shirt Thomas  Hood  295 

What  Might  Be  Done Charles  Mac kay  29) 

Labor Frances  Sargent  Osgood  296 

The  Factory  Girl's  Last  Day 297 

The  Coral  Insect Lydia  Huntley  Sigourney  297 

Ring  Out,  Wild  Bells Alfred  Tennyson  298 

The  Good  Time  Coming Charles  Mackay  298 

Endurance Elizabeth  Akers  Allen  29^ 

Learn  to  Sweep H.  S.  Brooks  299 

Rhymes  for  Hard  Times Nomtan  McLeod  299 

The  Miner John  Swift  300 

A  Lancashire  Doxology 

Dinah  Maria  Mulock  Craik  300 

The  Drunkard's  Daughter 300 

The  Song  of  Steam  George  W.  Cutter  301 

Duty 301 

True  Rest .John  Sullivan  Dwight  301 

Good  Night Charles  T.Brooks  302 

Labor  Song Denis  Florence  McCarthy  302 

Ode  to  the  Harvest  Moon Henry  Kirke  White  302 

Song  of  the  Peasant  Wife 

Caroline  Elizabeth  Norton  303 

A  Shepherd's  Life. Robert  Bloomfield.  303 

Your  Mission 304 

Knocked  About Daniel  Connoly  304 

Tubal  Cain Charles  Mackay  304 

RURAL  LIFE. 

The  Ploughman Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  306 

The  Mowers Myron  B.  Benton  306 

The  Songs  of  Our  Fathers 

Felicia  Dorothea  Hemans  307 

The  Useful  Plough 308 

A  Pastoral John  Byrom  308 

The  Old  Mill Thomas  Dunn  English  309 

Angling James  Thomson  309 

Milking  Time Philip  Morse  309 

The  Angler Thomas  Buchanan  Read  310 

Millionaire  and  l5art.fuot  Boy G.T.Lanigan  310 

The  Shepherd-Boy Letitia  E.  London  310 

The  Busy  Housewife 311 

Ruth Thomas  Hood  311 

Rural  Sounds Mlliam  Cowper  311 

Health — The  Handmaid  of  Happinets 312 


Page. 

River  Song F.  B.  Sanbome  312 

Happy  the  Man  Whose  Wish  and  Care 

Alexander  Pope  312 

Come  to  the  Sunset  Tree 

Felicia  Dorothea  Hemans  312 

When  the  Cows  Come  Home Mary  E.  Nealey  313 

Cornfields Mary  Howitt  313 

Driving  Home  the  Cows Kate  P.  Osgood  314 

Town  atid  Country William  Cowper  314 

My  Heart's  in  the  Highlands Robert  Bums  314 

Hunting  Song Paul  Wliitehead  314 

The  Cave .James  Macpherson  314 

HarvestSong Eliza  Cook  315 

The  Farmer's  Wife Paul  Hamilton  Hayne  315 

River  and  Wood William  Barnes  316 

Farm- Yard  Song.....y<3A«  Toivnsend  Trowbridge  316 

The  Horseback  Ride 

Sarah  Jane  Lippincott  {Grace  Greenwood)  317 

The  House  on  the  Hill Eugene  J.  Hall  317 

On  the  Banks  of  the  Tennessee 

William  D.  Gallagher  318 

The  Happiness  of  Animals William  Cowper  319 

SORROW  AND  ADVERSITY. 

Go  Where  Glory  Waits  Thee Thomas  Moore  320 

Bijah's  Story Charles  M.  Lewis  320 

The  Bridge  of  Sighs Thomas  Hood  321 

The  Sexton Park  Benjamin  322 

Good-Bye 322 

Farewells... 322 

On  the  Bridge  oiSv^hs... Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps  323 

Parting Thomas  Kibble  Hervey  323 

The  Little  Match-Girl... i%//.y  Christian  Andersen  323 

Thou  Art  Gone  to  the  Grave 

Bishop  Reginald  Heber  324 

The  Lot  of  Thousands Mrs.  Hunter  325 

The  Little  Grave...  325 

The  Widowed  Mother .John  Wilson  325 

The  Maiden  s  Grave 326 

Shipwrecked  Hepes Hiram  Rich  326 

Man  Was  Made  to  Mourn Robert  Burns  326 

The  Closing  Scene Thomas  Buchanan  Read  327 

The  Death  of  the  Old  Year Alfred  Tennyson  328 

O.ily  the  Clothes  She  Wore N.  G.  Shepherd  328 

Very  Dark 329 

The  Blessings  of  Adversity Samuel  Daniel  329 

Victory  from  Defeat 329 

The  Gambler's  Wife Dr.  Coates  330 

A  Thought 330 

Only  a  Year Harriet  Beecher  Stowe  330 

Break,  Break,  Break Alfred  Tennyson  331 

Moan,  Moan,  Ye  Dying  Gales Henry  Ncele  331 

Retrospection Alfred  Tennyson  331 

Perished Mary  Louise  Ritter  331 

The  Female  Con\\cx..... Letitia  Elizabeth  Landon  331 

The  Dreamer 332 

Losses Frances  Brown  333 


12 


CONTENTS. 


Page. 

The  Pauper's  Drive Thomas  Noel  333 

On  the  Frontier ./  Edgar  Jones  333 

Prince's  Feather Mary  E.  Bradley  334 

PERSONS  AND  PLACES. 

To  Thomas  Moore Lord  Bryon  337 

The  Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore Charles  Wolfe  337 

Dirge  for  a  Soldier George  Henry  Boker  337 

George  Washington James  Russel  Lowell  338 

Sir  John  Franklin George  Henry  Boker  339 

Benjamin  Franklin William  B.  Tappan  341 

A  Tribute  to  Samuel  Adams 

Robert  Treat  Paine  341 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow 

Francis  F.  Broivn  341 

Washington  Allston 

Henry  Theodore  Tuckerman%  342 

William  Ellery  Ch2Lnnin%...James  Russell  Lowell  342 

Honor  to  Kane Fitz-James  O'Brien  342 

Cour  de  Lion  at  the  Bier  of  His  Father 

Felicia  Dorothea  Hemans  344 

Farragut Charles  DeKay  345 

Robert  Burns Ebenezer  Elliott  346 

Napoleon Lord  Byron  346 

Benjonson Lucius  Gary  {Lord  Falkland)  346 

Dante Thcnnas  William  Parsons  346 

John  Milton John  Dryden  346 

To  Shakespeare Charles  Sprague  346 

Washington  Irving t  347 

To  the  Memory  of  My  Beloved  Master,  William 
Shakespeare,  and  What  He  Hath  Left  Us... 

Ben  Jonson  347 

Epitaph  on  Shakespeare John  Milton  348 

Marias Lydia  Maria  Child  348 

Leather  Stocking John  G.  C.  Brainard  349 

The  Fiftieth  Birthday  of  Agassiz 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  349 

A  Panegyric  to  Oliver  Cromwell 

Edmund  Waller  349 

Wolsey's  Advice  to  Cromwell 

William,  Shakespeare  350 

Lord  Macaulay Walter  Savage  Landor  .  350 

Joseph  Mazzini 

Laura  C.  Redden  \  Howard  Glyndon)  350 

Daniel  Boone Lord  Byron  351 

A  Welcome  to  "Boz" W.  H  Venable  351 

To  Victor  Hugo Alfred  Tennyson  352 

The  Burial  of  Moses Cecil  Frances  Alexander  353 

To  the  Memory  of  Thomas  Hood 

Bartholomew  Simmons  353 

The  Land  of  the  West George  P.  Morris  354 

Monody  on  Samuel  Patch Robert  C  Sands  .354 

The  Orient Lord  Byron  355 

Liben  y  to  Athens James  Gates  Percival  355 

Jerusalem  Before  the  Siege  of  Titus 

Henry  Hart  Milman  355 

Sunny  Italy Edward  C.  Pinkney  356 


Page. 

The  Mountains  of  SvixiztrXand.Rose  Terry  Cooke  356 

Palestine John  Greenleaf  Whittier  356 

Greece James  G.  Brooks  357 

Naples Samttel  Rogers  357 

Melrose  Abbey Sir  Walter  Scott  358 

Thebes William  Whitehead  358 

The  Isles  of  Greece Lord  Byron  359 

RELIGIOUS  LIFE. 

Hymn  of  the  T)Vi'nkGrs..John  Greenleaf  IVJtittier  361 

Intimations  of  Immortality..  J^'iV/zaw  Wordsworth  361 

True  Faith B.  P.  Shillaber  363 

The  Model  Church John  H.  Yates  363 

Shall  We  Know  Each  Other  There? 364 

He  Doeth  His  Alms  to  Be  Seen  of  Men 364 

The  Weary  Soul 365 

The  Messiah Alexander  Pope  365 

I  Will  Fear  No  Evil Horatius  Bonar  366 

'Twill  Not  Be  Long 366 

Lord,  Help  Me 367 

"  Peace  I  Leave  With  You  " Mrs.   Waring  367 

As  Thou  Wilt Herbert  Schmolk  367 

Over  the  River Nancy  Woodbury  Priest  368 

The  Father's  Love Mary,  Queen  of  Hungary  368 

The  Martyr's  Hymn Martin  Luther  369 

Rock  of  Ages Edward  H.  Rice  369 

Softly  Woo  Away  Her  Breath 

Bryan  Waller  Procter  {Barry  Cornwall)  369 

Resignation Henry    Wadsworth  Lojigfellow  370 

Christ's  Presence  in  the  House 

James  Freeman  Clarke  370 

There  Is  No  Death Lord  Lytton  370 

The  Sabbath  Morning John  Leyden  371 

The  Drowning  Singer Marianne  Faming  ham  371 

Abide  with  Me Henry  F.  Lyte  372 

Faith  and  Hope Rembrandt  Peale  yji 

Now  and  Afterwards. Dinah  Maria  Murlock  Craik  372 

The  Angels'  Whisper Samuel  Lover  372 

Hymn  of  the  Hebrew  Maid Sir  Walter  Scott  373 

The  Dying  Christian  to  His  Soul 

Alexander  Pope  373 

Watchman,  What  of  the  Night? 373 

The  Changed  Cross Mrs.   Charles  Hobart  374 

The  Ministry  of  Angels Edmund  Spenser  375 

The  Dying  Saviour Paul  Gerhardt  375 

For  Love's  Sake Margaret  J.  Preston  375 

Different  Minds Richard  Chenevix  Trench  376 

The  Hour  of  Death Felicia  Dorothea  Hemans  377 

The  Religion  of  Hudibras Samuel  Butler  377 

Creative  Power .Joseph  Addisojt  377 

No  Sects  in  Heaven Mrs.  Cleveland  378 

JohnJankin's  Sermon  379 

We've  Always  Been  Provided  For 379 

Mercy William  Shakespeare  380 

Last  Hymn Mary  G.  Brainard  380 

A  Father  Reading  the  Bible 

Felicia  Dorothea  Hemans  380 


CONTENTS. 


13 


Page. 

To  a  Family  Bible Felicia  Dorothea  Hetnans  ,  381 

The  Phantom  Isles John  Monsell    381 

Amazing,  Beauteous  Change... /%///^  Doddridge  381 

Across  the  River Lucy  Larcom  382 

A  Prayer John  Henry  Newman  382 

The  Golden  Rule 383 

A  Summer  Evening Isaac  Watts  383 

A  Dying  Hymn Alice  Cary  383 

When Susan  Coolidge  383 

Grandmother's  Bible Hattie  A.  Cooley  384 

All's  For  the  Best 384 

Still  Waters W.  C.Richards  384 

Answered  Prayers Ella  Wheeler  385 

The  Final  Goal ~ Alfred  Tennyson  385 

Safe  to  the  Land Henry  Alford  385 

My  Creed Theodore  Tilton  385 

Daniel  Gray Josiah  Gilbert  Holland  3S6 

Parted  Friends James  Montgomery  386 

"I  Hold  Still" 387 

The  Dew-Drop  and  the  Stream 387 

My  Home 387 

Birds  of  Passage Felicia  Dorothea  Hemans  388 

Giving  and  Living 388 

Nothingis  Lost 388 

The  Maiden's  Prayer Nathaniel  Parker  Willis  389 

Onward ./.  K.  Lombard  389 

We've  All  Our  Angel  Side 389 

The  Bright  Side 390 

Carving  a  Name Horatio  Alget  390 

The  Hardest  Time  of  All 390 

My  Ships J.  W.  Barker  391 

Under  the  Snow John  H.  Bonner  391 

Writing  with  Diamonds 391 

Going  and  Coming Edward  A.  Jenks  392 

Toll,  Then,  No  More R.  R.  Bowker  392 

Too  Late James  Weston  392 

The  Two  Weavers Hannah  More  393 

Field  Lilies 393 

The  Way  to  Heaven Josiah  Gilbert  Holland  394 

Three  Words  of  Strength Frederick  Schiller  394 

The  Nautilus  and  the  Ammonite 

G,  F.  Richardson  394 

The  New  Jerusalem David  Dickson  395 

Rest B.  B.  Thatcher  395 

CHILDHOOD  AND  YOUTH. 

Many,  Many  Years  Ago T.  Loker  396 

A  Visit  from  St.  Nicholas Clement  C.  Moore  396 

The  Children Charles  W.Dickinson  $g7 

The  Mountain  and  the  Squirrel 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson  397 

No  Baby  in  the  House Clara  G.  Dolliver  398 

The  Baby George  Mac  Donald  398 

Saturday  Afternoon Nathaniel  Parker  U^llis  398 

Happy  Days  of  Childhood  ..  Allan  Cunningham  39S 

We  Are  Seven William  Wordsworth  399 

What  Does  Little  Birdie  Say?. ..Alfred  Tennyson  400 


Page. 

Help  One  Another George  E.  Hunting  400 

Teaching  Public  School 400 

The  Children's  Hour 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  401 

The  Little  Children 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  401 

To  a  Child From  the  Chinese  401 

Day  Dreams John  Clare  40IJ 

Baby  Louise Margaret  Eytinge  402 

Dreams  and  Realities Phoebe  Cary  402 

Little  Goldenhair F.  Bruce  Smith  402 

Boyhood Washington  Allston  403 

Seven  Times  One .Jean  Ingelow  403 

The  Piper William  Blake  403 

Baby's  Shoes William  Cox  Bennett  404 

The    Enchantress — A    Spring-Time   Lyric    for 

Mabel Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich  404 

The  Barefoot  Boy .John  Greenleaf  Whittier  404 

The  Goat  and  the  Swing 

John  Townsend  Trowbridge  405 

Little  Brown  Hands M.  H.  Krout  405 

Robert  Bruce  and  the  Spider Eliza  Cook  406 

Lessons  from  Birds  and  Bees 406 

Dare  and  Do 407 

Ary  Scheffer 407 

By-and-By ./.  W.  Barker  407 

Learn  a  Little  Every  Day 408 

The  Best  That  I  Can 408 

The  Golden  Stair W.  D.  Smith  408 

I  Would  if  I  Could 408 

Principle  Put  to  the  Test William  Cowper  409 

The  Little  Sunbeam 409 

Do  Your  Duty Luella  Clark  409 

The  Battle  of  Life 410 

Wanted,  A  Boy Mary  B.  Reese  410 

The  Pet  Lamb William  Wordsworth  410 

The  Sculptor  Boy W.  C.  Doane  411 

MyBird'sNest Luella  Clark  411 

"Little  Nan" G.  W.  Thomas  412 

"Little  Nan" A.  W.Dodge  412 

The  Fairies William  Ailing  ham  413 

DRAMATIC  SELECTIONS. 

Description  of  Jane  de  Montfort...y(?a««a  Baillie  4x5 

Speech  of  Prince  Edward  in  His  Dungeon 

Joanna  Baillie  415 

The  Growth  of  Murderous  WaXQ... Joanna  Baillie  415 

Incantation  Scene  from  "  Remorse" 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge  417 

Scene  from  "  Bertram  "...  Charles  Robert  Maturin  419 

Scene  from  "  Virginius" 

James  Sheridan  Knowles  419 

From  "The  Wife,  A  Tale  of  Mantua" 

James  Sheridan  Knowles  422 

Husband  and  Bride Thomas  Beddoes  422 

After  Death,  What? Joseph  Addison  425 

The  Murder William  Shakespeare  426 


14 


CONTENTS. 


Page. 

A  Dagger  ot  the  Mind William  Shakespeare*  427 

Dreams Wtlliatn  Shakespeare  428 

Love's  Ecstacy 

Byran  Waller  Procter  {Barry  Cornwall )  428 

From  "  Othello  " William  Shakespeare  429 

From  "J^ius  Caesar". William  Shakespeare  431 

Caractacus Bernard  Barton  432 

The  Mistletoe  Bough 432 

Lucius  Junius  Brutus'  Oration  Over  the  Body 

of  Lucretia John  Howard  Payne  433 

POETICAL  CURIOSITIES. 

Life 434 

The  Beauties  of  English  Orthography 434 

To  my  Infant  Son Thomas  Hood  435 

The  Puzzled  Dutchman Charles  F.  Adams  435 

The  Djinns Victor  Hugo  436 

The  Irish  Eclipse Irwin  Russell  437 

Mrs.  Lofty  and  1 437 

The  Gouty  Merchant  and  the  Stranger 

Horace  Smith  437 

Blind  Men  and  the  Elephant 

John  Godfrey  Saxe  438 

The  Housekeeper's  Soliloquy... 3/r5.  F.  D.  Gage  438 
Collusion  between  a  Alegaiter  and  a  Water-Snaik 

/.  W.  Morris  438 

A  Receipt  for  Court.ship .Jonathan  Szvift  439 

A  Forgetful  Man Matthew  Prior  439 

Very  Deaf. .Jonathan  Swift  440 

An  Original  Epitaph 440 

Case  in  the  Constitutional  Court 440 

A  Parson's  Fate ^440 

The  Bald-Pated  Welshman  and  the  Fly 

William.  Somerville  440 

Epitaph  on  a  Miser Jonathan  Swift  441 

Riddles .Jonathan  Swift  441 

French  Cooking 442 

Saved  by  His  Wit 442 

The  Friend  of  Humanity  and  the  Knife-Grinder.. 

George  Canning  442 

Der  Drummer Charles  F.  Adams  443 

The  Butterfly's  Ball Mrs.  Henry  Roscoe  443 

Report  of  a  Case,  Not  to  be  Found  in  any  of  the 

Books William  Cowper  444 

Gone  with  a  Handsomer  Man...  Will  Af.  Carleton  444 

An  Ekgy  on  the  Death  of  a  Mad  Dog 

Oliver  Goldsmith  445 

The  Baggage-Fiend 446 

American  Aristocracy .John  Godfrey  Saxe  446 

Poor  Little  Joe 

David  L.  Proitdfit  {Peleg  Arkwright)  447 

The  Bells Edgar  Allen  Poe  447 

The  Bells  of  Shandon 

Francis  Mahony  {Father  Prout )  448 

Tim  Twinkleton's  Twins Charles  A.  Bell  449 

The  Old  Village  Choir 

Benjamin  Franklin  Taylor  450 


Page. 

The  Modern  Belle 451 

Aunt  Tabitha Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  451 

The  Irishwoman's  Lament 451 

Vision  of  the  Monk  Gabriel 

Eleanor  C.  Donnelly  452 

Let  Us  All  Be  Unhappy  Together 

Charles  Dibdin  453 

The  Old  Ways  and  the  New .John  H.  Yates  453 

The  Way  to  Sing Helen  Hunt  Jackson  {H.  H.)  454 

An  Incomplete  K&\Q\a.\xon... Richard  A.  Jackson  454 

The  Cosmic  Egg 455 

Holy  Willie's  Prayer Robert  Bums  455 

December  and  May 456 

The  Three  Warnings Mrs.  Thrale  456 

To  the  Terrestial  Globe 

William  Schwenck  Gilbert  457 

HUMOROUS  READINGS. 

A  Love  Letter  from  Dakota ...W.  W.  Fink  458 

The  Deacon's  Confession ^V.  S.  Emerson  458 

The  Soft  Guitar P.  H.  Bowne  459 

The  Knight  and  the  Lady 

Richard  Marris  Barham 

{ Thomas  Ingoldsby,  Esq. )  460 

The  Battle'of  the  Kegs Francis  Hopkinson  463 

"  Please  to  Ring  the  Belle" Thomas  Hood  463 

A  Sociable  ! , 464 

Shacob's  Lament 464 

The  Declaration Nathaniel  Parker  Willis  464 

Pat's  Love  Letter Patrick  Dolitt  464 

Tom  Darling L.  F.  Wells  465 

Is  It  Anybody's  Business? 466 

First  Appearance  in  Type 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  466 

Sorrows  of  Werther 

William  Makeepeace  Thackery  467 

The  Confession 467 

The  Well  of  St.  Keyne Robert  Southey  468 

Sally  Simpkin's  Lament ThomasHood  468 

The  Ghost 469 

Faithless  Sally  Brown Thomas  Hood  470 

Of  a  Certain  Man Sir  John  Harrington  470 

To  My  Nose 

Alfred  A.  Forrester  {Alfred  Crowquill)  470 

The  Proud  Miss  Mac  Bride..... /oA»  Godfrey  Saxe  47  r 

Widow  Bedott  to  Elder  Sniffles. 

Frances  Miriam.  White  her  472 

To  the  "  Sextant " Arabella  M.  Mllson.  47  2 

My  Lord  Tomnoddy Richard  Harris  Barham 

{ Thomas  Ingoldsby,  Esq.)  473 
Darius  Green  and  his  Flying-Machine 

John  Townsend  Trowbridge  475 

Pat's  Criticism Charles  F.  Adams  478 

Socrates  Snooks 479 

The  Retort George  Perkins  Morris  479 

An  Ax  to  Grind Benjamin  Frankhn  480 

Kris  Kringle's  Surprise Henry  Davenport  480 


PROSE  CONTENTS. 


Page. 

Affections  of  Home Charles  Dickens  25 

The  Old  Log  Cabin Daniel  Webster  27 

Home  of  tlie  Workingman 34 

The  Pilot JohnB.  Goitgh  16S 

Goffe,  the  Regicide Timothy  Divight  174 

Columbus  First    Discovers  Land  in  the  New 

World Washington  Irving  180 

Grandeur  of  the  Ocean Walter  Cotton  220 

The  Star-Spangled  Banner Francis  S.  Key  241 

Hail  Columbia .Joseph  Hopkinwn  243 

Address  at  the  Dedication  of  Gettysburg  Ceme- 
tery  Abraham  Lincoln  246 

Patriotism Fisher  Ames  247 

On  Being  Found  Guilty  of  Treason 

Thomas  Francis  Meagher  248 

Oriental  Mysticism Leonard  Woods  259 

Ideas  the  Life  of  a  People 

George  William  Curtis  2*59 

The  Right  Must  Conquer Thomas  Car!yle  270 

Nine  Graves  in  Edinboro' Irmin  Russell  273 

Mosses  from  an  Old  Man^e 

Nathaniel  Hawthorne  282 

Coming  and  Going Henry  Ward  Beecher  285 

The  Hero  of  the  Dutch  Republic „ 

John  Lothrop  Motley  287 

Nature's  Artistic  Power .John  Ruskin  2S8 


Page. 

The  Last  Hours  of  Little  Paul  Dombey 

Charles  Dickens  33-, 

Washington  as  a  Civilian 338 

The  Welcome  to   Lafayette  on  his   Return  to 

America .Joseph  T.  Buckingham^  341 

Extract  from  an  Oration  on  James  A.  Garfield  ... 

James  G.  Blaine  343 

Queen  Elizabeth ..David  Hunt  344 

Sufferings  and  Destiny  of  the  Pilgrims 

Edward  Everett  34S 

Maria  Theresa's  Appeal  to  Hungary 351 

Maria  De  Medicis  Receiving  the  Regency 352 

Monody  on  Samuel  Patch 354 

Festival  in  a  Russian  Village 358 

A  Dream  of  the  Universe Jean  Paul  Richter  376 

Recollections  of  My  Christmas  Trve 

Charles  Dickens  414 
Picking  to  Pieces  the  Characters  of  Other  People 

Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan  423 

Bubbles  of  the  Day Douglas  Jerrold  427 

The  Newcastle  Apothecary George  Colman  467 

Widow  Bedott's  Poetry 

Frances  Miriam  Wliitcher  477 

Mrs.  Caudle's  Lecture  on  Shirt  Buttons 

Douglas  Je7  rold  479 

An  Ax  to  Grind Benjatnin  Franklin  480 


15 


mmmm- 


THE  HOME  CIRCLE. 


LOVE  OF  HOME. 


HERE  is  a  land,  of  every  land 
the  pride, 

Beloved  by  heaven  o'er 

all  the  world  beside  ; 
Where  brighter  suns  dis- 
pense serener  light. 
And  milder   moons  em- 
paradise  the  night ; 
A  land  of  beauty,   virtue,  valor, 

truth, 
Time-tutor'd  age,  and  love-exalted 

youth. 
The  wandering  mariner,  whose  eye 

explores 
The  wealthiest  isles,  the  most  en- 
chanting shores, 
Views  not  a  realm  so  bountiful  and  fair. 
Nor  breathes  the  spirit  of  a  purer  air ; 

In  every  clime  the  magnet  of  his  soul, 
Touch'd  by  remembrance,  trembles  to  that  pole ! 
For  in  this  land  of  heaven's  peculiar  grace, 
The  heritage  of  nature's  noblest  race. 
There  is  a  spot  of  earth  supremely  blest — 
A  dearer,  sv/eeter  spot  than  all  the  rest, 
Where  man,  creation's  tyrant,  casts  aside 
His  sword  and  sceptre,  pageantry  and  pride. 
While  in  his  soften'd  looks  benignly  blend 
The  sire,  the  son,  the  husband,  brother,  friend. 

Here  woman  reigns  ;  the  mother,  daughter,  wife. 
Strews  with  fresh  flowers  the  narrow  way  of  life  ! 
In  the  clear  heaven  of  her  delightful  eye, 
An  angel-guard  of  loves  and  graces  lie  ! 
Around  her  knees  domestic  duties  meet. 
And  fireside  pleasures  gambol  at  her  feet. 
Where  shall  that  land,  that  spot  of  earth  be  found  ? 
Art  thou  a  man? — a  patriot? — look  around  ; 
Oh  thou  shalt  find,  howe'er  thy  footsteps  roam, 
That  land  thy  country,  and  that  spot  thy  home ! 

James  Montgomery. 


An  exile  from  home,  splendor  dazzles  in  vain ! 
O,  give  me  my  lowly  thatched  cottage  again ! 
The  birds  singing  gayly  that  came  at  my  call ; — 
O,  give  me  sweet  peace  of  mind,  dearer  than  all ! 

Home,  home,  sweet  home ! 

There's  no  place  li'ce  home  ! 

John  Howard  Payne. 


(3 


m' 


SWEET  HOME. 

ID  pleasures  and    palaces    though    we    may 
roam. 
Be  it  ever  so  humble,  there's  no  place  like 
home ! 
A  charm  from  the  skies  seems  to  hallow  us  here. 
Which,   seek  through   the  world,  is  ne'er  met  with 
elsewhere. 

Home,  home,  sweet  home  ! 
There's  no  place  like  home ! 


HEAVEN  ON  EARTH. 

ND  has  the  earth  lost  its  so  spacious  round, 
The  sky  its  blue  circumference  above. 
That  in  this  little  chamber  there  are  found 
Both  earth  and  heaven,  my  universe  of 
love, 
All  that  my  God  can  give  me  or  remove, 

Here  sleeping  save  myself  in  mimic  death? 
Sweet,  that  in  this  small  compass  I  behoove 

To  live  their  living,  and  to  breathe  their  breath  ! 
Almost  I  wish  that,  with  one  common  sigh. 

We  might  resign  all  mundane  care  and  strife  ; 
And  seek  together  that  transcendent  sky. 

Where  father,  mother,  children,  husband,  wife, 
Together  pant  in  everlasting  life ! 

Thomas  Hood. 


IF  THOU  WERT  BY  MY  SIDE.  MY  LOVE. 

'  F  thou  wert  by  my  side,  my  love, 
•@«     How  fast  would  evening  fail. 

In  green  Bengala's  palmy  grove. 
Listening  tlie  nightingale ! 

I  miss  thee,  when,  by  Gunga's  stream, 
My  twilight  steps  I  guide, 
But  most  beneath  the  lamp's  pale  beam 
I  miss  thee  from  my  side. 

But  when  at  mom  and  eve  the  star 
Beholds  me  on  my  knee, 
I  feel,  though  thou  art  distant  far, 
Thy  prayers  ascend  for  me. 

Then  on,  then  on,  where  duty  leads  ! 
My  course  be  onward  still, 
O'er  broad  Hindostan's  sultry  meads. 
O'er  bleak  Almorah's  hill. 

That  course  nor  Delhi's  kingly  gates, 
Nor  mild  Malwah  detain  ; 
For  sweet  the  bliss  us  both  awaits 
By  yonder  western  main. 

Thy  towers,  Bombay,  gleam  bright,  they  say, 

Across  the  dark  blue  sea  ; 

But  ne'er  were  hearts  so  light  and  gay 

As  then  shall  meet  in  thee  ! 

Reginald  Heber 


(17) 


18 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


^i) 


ASSOCIATIONS  OF  HOME. 

'HAT  is  not  home,  where  day  by  day 
I  wear  the  busy  hours  away; 
That  is  not  home,  where  lonely  night 
Prepares  me  for  the  toils  of  light; 
'Tis  hope,  and  joy,  and  memory,  give 
A  home  in  which  the  heart  can  live. 
It  is  a  presence  undefined, 
O'ershadowing  the  conscious  mind ; 
Where  love  and  duty  sweetly  blend 
To  consecrate  the  name  of  friend : 
Where'er  thou  art,  is  home  to  me. 
And  home  without  thee  cannot  be. 

Walter  Conder. 


THE  COTTER'S  SATURDAY  NIGHT. 

"*^  OVEMBER  chill  blaws  loud  wi'  angry  sugh  ; 
r^  f         The  short'ning  winter-day  is  near  a  close  ; 
J  -^     The  miry  beasts  retreating  frae  the  pleugh  ; 

The  black'ning  trains  o'  craws  to  their  re- 
pose ; 
The  toil-worn  Cotter  frae  his  labor  goes, 

This  night  his  weekly  moil  is  at  an  end, 
Collects  his  spades,  his  mattocks,  and  his  hoes, 

Hoping  the  morn  in  ease  and  rest  to  spend. 
And  weary,  o'er  the  moor,  his  course  does  hameward 
bend. 

At  length  his  lonely  cot  appears  in  view, 

Beneath  the  shelter  of  an  aged  tree  ; 
Th'  expectant  wee-things,  toddlin  stacher  thro', 

To  meet  their  Dad,  wi'  flichterin  noise  an'  glee. 
His  wee  bit  ingle,  blinkin  bonnily. 

His  clane  hearth-stane,  his  thriftie  wifie's  smile, 
The  lisping  infant  prattling  on  his  knee, 

Does  all  his  weary  carking  cares  beguile. 
An'  makes  him  quite  forget  his  labor  an'  his  toil. 

Wi'  >oy  unfeign'd  brothers  and  sisters  meet. 

An'  each  for  other's  welfare  kindly  spiers  : 
The  social  hours,  swift-winged,  unnoticed  fleet ; 

Each  tells  the  uncos  that  he  sees  or  hears  ; 
The  parents,  partial,  eye  their  hopeful  years, 

Anticipation  forward  points  the  view. 
The  mother,  wi'  her  needle  and  her  shears. 

Gars  auld  claes  look  amaist  as  weel's  the  new ; 
The  father  mixes  a'  wi'  admonition  due. 

Their  master's  an'  their  mistress's  command, 

The  younkers  a'  are  warned  to  obey  ; 
And  mind  their  labors  wi'  an  eydent  hand. 

And  ne'er,  tho'  out  o'  sight,  to  jauk  or  play : 
"And,  oh  !  be  sure  to  fear  tlie  Lord  alway. 

And  mind  your  duty,  duly,  mom  and  night ! 
Lest  in  temptation's  path  ye  gang  astray, 

Implore  his  counsel  and  assisting  might : 
They  never  sought  in  vain  that  sought  the  Lord  aright !' ' 


But,  hark  I  a  rap  comes  gently  to  the  door ; 

Jenny,  wha  kens  the  meaning  o'  the  same, 
Tells  how  a  neebor  lad  cam  o'er  the  moor, 

To  do  some  errands,  and  convoy  her  hame. 
The  wily  mother  sees  the  conscious  flame 

Sparkle  in  Jenny's  e'e,  and  flush  her  cheek  ; 
Wi'  heart-struck  anxious  care,  inquires  his  name, 

While  Jenny  hafiiins  is  afraid  to  speak  ; 
Weel  pleas'd  the  mother  hears,  it's  nae  wild  worthless 

rake. 

Wi'  kindly  welcome  Jenny  brings  him  ben  ; 

A  strappan  youth  ;  he  takes  the  mother's  eye  ; 
BIythe  Jenny  sees  the  visit's  no  ill  ta'en  ; 

The  father  cracks  of  horses,  pleughs,  and  kye. 
The  youngster's  artless  heart  o'erflows  wi'  joy, 

But,  blate  and  laithfu',  scarce  can  weel  behave  ; 
The  woman,  wi'  a  woman's  wiles,  can  spy 

W^hat  makes  the  youth  sae  bashfu'  an'  sae  grave  ; 
Weel  pleas'd  to  think  her  bairn's  respected  like  the  lave. 

O  happy  love  !  where  love  like  this  is  found  ! 

O  heart-felt  raptures  !  bliss  beyond  compare  ! 
I've  paced  much  this  weary,  mortal  round. 

And  sage  experience  bids  me  this  declare — 
"If  Heav'n  a  draught  of  heav'nly  pleasure  spare, 

One  cordial  in  this  melancholy  vale, 
'Tis  when  a  youthful,  loving,  modest  pair. 

In  other's  arms  breathe  out  the  tender  tale. 
Beneath  the  milk-white  thorn  tliat  scents  the  ev'ning 

gale ! " 

But  now  the  supper  crowns  their  simple  board. 

The  halesome  parritch,  chief  o'  Scotia's  food  : 
The  soupe  their  only  hawkie  does  afford, 

That  'yont  the  hallan  snugly  chows  her  cood ; 
The  dame  brings  forth  in  complimental  mood. 

To  grace  the  lad,  her  weel-hain'd  kebbuck,  fell, 
And  aft  he's  prest,  and  aft  he  calls  it  gude  ; 

The  frugal  wifie,  garrulous,  will  tell 
How  'twas  a  towmond  auld,  sin'  lint  was  i'  the  bell. 

The  cheerful  supper  done,  wi'  serious  face. 

They,  round  the  ingle,  form  a  circle  wide  ; 
The  sire  turns  o'er,  wi'  patriarchal  grace, 

The  big  ha'-Bible,  ance  his  father's  pride  : 
His  bonnet  rev'rently  is  laid  aside, 

His  lyart  haffets  wearing  thin  an'  bare  ; 
Those  strains  that  once  did  sweet  in  Zion  glide. 

He  wales  a  portion  with  judicious  care  ; 
And  "  Let  us  worship  God  ! "  he  says,  with  solemn  air. 

They  chant  their  artless  notes  in  simple  guise  ; 

They  tune  their  hearts,  by  far  the  noblest  aim  ; 
Perhaps  "  Dundee's  "  wild  warbling  measures  rise. 

Or  plaintive  "  Martyrs,"  worthy  of  the  name  ; 
Or  noble  "  Elgin  "  beats  the  heav'nward  flame, 

The  sweetest  far  of  Scotia's  holy  lays  : 
Compar'd  with  these,  Italian  trills  are  tame  ; 

The  tickled  ears  no  heart-felt  raptures  raise  ; 
Nae  unison  hae  they  with  our  Creator's  praise. 


THE   HOME   CIRCLE. 


19 


Tlie  priest-like  father  reads  the  sacred  page, 

How  Abram  was  the  friend  of  God  on  high  ; 
Or  Moses  bade  eternal  warfare  wage 

With  Amalek's  ungracious  progeny  ; 
Or  how  the  royal  Bard  did  groaning  lie 

Beneath  the  stroke  of  Heaven's  avenging  ire  : 
Or  Job's  pathetic  plaint,  and  wailing  cry  ; 

Or  rapt  Isaiah's  wild,  seraphic  fire  ; 
Or  other  holy  seers  that  tune  the  sacred  lyre. 

Perhaps  the  Christian  volume  is  the  theme, 

How  guiltless  blood  for  guilty  man  was  shed  ; 
How  He,  who  bore  in  Heaven  the  second  name, 

Had  not  on  earth  whereon  to  lay  his  head  : 
How  his  first  followers  and  servants  sped  ; 

The  precepts  sage  they  wrote  to  many  a  land  : 
Plow  He,  who  lone  in  Patmos  banished, 

Saw  in  the  sun  a  mighty  angel  stand ; 
And  heard  great  Babylon's  doom  pronounced  by 

Heaven's  command. 

Then  kneeling  down,  to  Heaven's  Eternal  King, 

The  saint,  the  father,  and  the  husband  prays  : 
Hope  ''springs  exulting  on  triumphant  wing," 

That  thus  they  all  shall  meet  in  future  days  : 
There  ever  bask  in  uncreated  rays. 

No  more  to  sigh,  or  shed  the  bitter  tear, 
Together  hymning  their  Creator's  praise, 

In  such  society,  yet  still  more  dear  ; 
While  circling  time  moves  round  in  an  eternal  sphere. 

Compar'd  with  this,  how  poor  religion's  pride, 

In  all  the  pomp  of  method,  and  of  art, 
When  men  display  to  congregations  wide 

Devotion's  ev'ry  grace,  except  the  heart ! 
The  Power,  incens'd,  the  pageant  will  desert. 

The  pompous  strain,  the  sacerdotal  stole  ; 
But  haply,  in  some  cottage  far  apart. 

May  hear,  well  pleased,  the  language  of  the  soul ; 
And  in  his  book  of  life  the  inmates  poor  enrol. 

Then  homeward  all  take  off  their  sev'ral  way  ; 

The  youngling  cottagers  retire  to  rest : 
The  parent-pair  their  secret  homage  pay. 

And  proffer  up  to  Heaven  the  warm  request. 
That  He  who  stills  the  raven's  clam'rous  nest, 

And  decks  the  lily  fair  in  flow'ry  pride, 
Would,  in  the  way  his  wisdom  sees  the  best. 

For  them  and  for  their  little  ones  provide  ; 
But  chiefly  in  their  hearts  with  grace  divine  preside. 

From  scenes  like  these  old  Scotia's  grandeur  springs, 

That  makes  her  lov'd  at  home,  rever'd  abroad  ; 
Princes  and  lords  are  but  the  breath  of  kings  ; 

"An  honest  man's  the  noblest  work  of  God  : " 
And  certes,  in  fair  virtue's  heavenly  road, 

The  cottage  leaves  the  palace  far  behind  ; 
What  is  a  lordling's  pomp  ?  a  cumbrous  load, 

Disguising  oft  the  wretch  of  human  kind, 
Studied  in  arts  of  hell,  in  wickedness  refin'd  ! 


O  Scotia  !  my  dear,  my  native  soil ! 

For  whom  my  warmest  wish  to  Heaven  is  sent ! 
Long  may  thy  hardy  sons  of  rustic  toil 

Be  blest  with  health,  and  peace,  and  sweet  content ! 
And,  oh,  may  Heaven  their  simple  lives  prevent 

From  luxury's  contagion,  weak  and  vile  ! 
Then,  howe'er  crowns  and  coronets  be  rent, 

A  virtuous  populace  may  rise  the  while, 
And  stand  a  wall  of  fire  around  their  much-lov'd  isle. 

O  Thou  !  who  pour'd  the  patriotic  tide 

That  stream'd  thro'  Wallace's  undaunted  heart ; 
Who  dar'd  to  nobly  stem  tyrannic  pride, 

Or  nobly  die,  the  second  glorious  part, 
(The  patriot's  God,  peculiarly  Thou  art, 

His  friend,  inspirer,  guardian,  and  reward  !) 
O  never,  never  Scotia's  realm  desert ; 

But  still  the  patriot,  and  the  patriot-bard. 
In  bright  succession  raise,  her  ornament  and  guard  ! 

Robert  Burns. 


THE  HAPPIEST  SPOT. 

I UT  where  to  find  that  happiest  spot  below. 
Who  can  direct,  when  all  pretend  to  know  ? 
The  shuddering  tenant  of  the  frigid  zone 
Boldly  proclaims  that  happiest  spot  his  own ; 
Extols  the  treasures  of  his  stormy  seas. 
And  his  long  nights  of  revelry  and  ease  : 
The  naked  negro,  panting  at  the  line. 
Boasts  of  his  golden  sands  and  palmy  wine. 
Basks  in  the  glare,  or  stems  the  tepid  wave, 
And  thanks  his  gods  for  all  the  good  they  gave. 
Such  is  the  patriot's  boast,  where'er  we  roam, 
His  first,  best  countrj',  ever  is  at  home. 
And  yet,  perhaps,  if  countries  we  compare, 
And  estimate  the  blessings  which  they  share. 
Though  patriots  flatter,  still  shall  wisdom  find 
An  equal  portion  dealt  to  all  mankind ; 
As  different  good,  by  art  or  nature  given. 
To  different  nations  makes  their  blessings  even. 
Oliver  Goldsmith. 


(3 


FRIENDLINESS  OF  A  FIRE. 

FIRE'S  a  good  companionable  friend, 
A  comfortable  friend,  who  meets  your  face 
With  welcome  glad,  and  makes  the  poorest 
shed 

As  pleasant  as  a  palace.     Are  you  cold  ? 
He  warms  you — weary?  he  refreshes  you — 
Hungr}'?  he  doth  prepare  your  food  for  you — 
Are  you  in  darkness?  he  gives  light  to  you — 
In  a  strange  land?  he  wears  a  face  that  is 
Familiar  from  your  childhood.     Are  you  poor  ? 
What  matters  it  to  him.     He  knows  no  difference 
Between  an  emperor  and  the  poorest  beggar ! 
Where  is  the  friend,  that  bears  the  name  of  man. 
Will  do  as  much  for  you  ? 

Mary  Howitt. 


20 


CROWN   JEWELS. 


LOVE    LIGHTENS  LABOR, 

a  GOOD  wife  rose  from  her  bed  one  mom, 
And  thought  with  a  nervous  dread 
Of  the  piles  of  clothes  to  be  washed,  and  more 
Than  a  dozen  mouths  to  be  fed. 
There's  the  meals  to  get  for  the  men  in  the  field, 

And  the  children  to  fix  away 
To  school,  and  the  milk  to  be  skimmed  and  churned ; 
And  all  to  be  done  this  day. 

It  had  rained  in  the  night,  and  all  the  wood 

Was  wet  as  it  could  be  ; 
There  were  puddings  and  pies  to  bake,  besides 

A  loaf  of  cake  for  tea. 
And  the  day  was  hot,  and  her  aching  head 

Throbbed  wearily  as  she  said, 
"  If  maidens  but  knew  what  good  wives  know, 

They  would  not  be  in  haste  to  wed  ! ' ' 

"Jennie,  what  do  you  think  I  told  Ben  Drowai? " 

Called  the  farmer  from  the  well ; 
And  a  flush  crept  up  to  his  bronztd  brow, 

And  his  eyes  half  bashfully  fell ; 
"It  was  this,"  he  said,  and  coming  near 

He  smiled,  and  stooping  down, 
Kissed  her  cheek — "  'twas  this,  that  you  were  the  best 

And  the  dearest  wife  in  town  ! " 

The  farmer  went  back  to  the  field,  and  the  wife 

In  a  smiling,  absent  way 
Sang  snatches  of  tender  little  songs 

She'd  not  sung  for  many  a  day. 
And  the  pain  in  her  head  was  gone,  and  the  clothes 

Were  white  as  the  foam  of  the  sea ; 
Her  bread  was  light,  and  her  butter  was  sweet. 

And  as  golden  as  it  could  be. 

"Just  think,"  the  children  all  called  in  a  breath, 

"Tom  Wood  has  run  off  to  sea ! 
"He  wouldn't,  I  know,  if  he'd  only  had 

As  happy  a  home  as  we." 
The  night  came  down,  and  the  good  wife  smiled 

To  herself,  as  she  softly  said : 
"  'Tis  so  sweet  to  labor  for  those  we  love, — 

It's  not  strange  that  maids  will  wed ! " 


ROCK  ME  TO  SLEEP. 

(ACKWARD,  turn  backward,  O  Time,  in  your 
flight, 
Make  me  a  child  again  just  for  to-night ! 
Mother,  come  back  from  the  echoless  shore, 
Take  me  again  to  your  heart  as  of  yore  ; 
Kiss  from  my  forehead  the  furrows  of  care, 
Smooth  the  few  silver  threads  out  of  my  hair ; 
Over  my  slumbers  your  loving  watch  keep  ; — 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother, — rock  me  to  sleep  ! 

Backward,  flow  backward,  O  tide  of  the  years ! 

I  am  so  wearj"  of  toil  and  of  tears, — 


Toil  without  recompense,  tears  all  in  vain, — 
Take  them,  and  give  me  my  childhood  again  ? 
I  have  grown  weary  of  dust  and  decay, — 
Weary  of  flinging  my  soul-wealth  away  ; 
Weary  of  sowing  for  others  to  reap  ; — 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother, — rock  me  to  sleep  ! 

Tired  of  the  hollow,  the  base,  the  untrue. 
Mother,  O  mother,  my  heart  calls  for  you  1 
Many  a  summer  the  grass  has  grown  green, 
Blossom'd  and  faded,  our  faces  between  : 
Yet,  with  strong  yearning  and  passionate  pain, 
Long  I  to-night  for  your  presence  again. 
Come  from  the  silence  so  long  and  so  deep  ; — 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother, — rock  me  to  sleep ! 

Over  my  heart  in  the  days  that  are  flown, 
No  love  like  mother-love  ever  has  shone  ; 
No  other  worship  abides  and  endures, — 
Faithful,  unselfish,  and  patient  like  yours  : 
None  like  a  mother  can  charm  away  pain 
From  the  sick  soul  and  the  world-weary  brain. 
Slumber's  soft  calms  o'er  my  heavy  lids  creep  ; — • 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother, — rock  me  to  sleep ! 

Come,  let  your  brown  hair,  just  lighted  with  gold, 
Fall  on  your  shoulders  again  as  of  old ; 
Let  it  drop  over  my  forehead  to-night, 
Shading  my  faint  eyes  away  from  the  light ; 
For  with  its  sunny-edged  shadows  once  more 
Haply  will  throng  the  sweet  visions  of  yore  ; 
Lovingly,  softly,  its  bright  billows  sweep ; — 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother, — rock  me  to  sleep ! 

Mother,  dear  mother,  the  years  have  been  long 
Since  I  last  listen'd  your  lullaby  song : 
Sing,  then,  and  unto  my  soul  it  shall  seem 
Womanhood's  years  have  been  only  a  dream. 
Clasp'd  to  your  heart  in  a  loving  embrace, 
With  your  light  lashes  just  sweeping  my  face, 
Never  hereafter  to  wake  or  to  weep  ; — 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother, — rock  me  to  sleep ! 

Elizabeth  Akers  Allen. 


a  I 


NOBODY'S  CHILD. 

LONE  in  the  dreary,  pitiless  street, 
With  my  torn  old  dress  and  bare  cold  feet, 
All  day  I've  wandered  to  and  fro, 
Hungry  and  shivering  and  nowhere  to  go  ; 

The  night's  coming  on  in  darkness  and  dread, 

And  the  chill  sleet  beating  upon  my  bare  head  ; 

Oh  !  why  does  the  wind  blow  upon  me  so  wild  ? 

Is  it  because  I'm  nobody's  child  ? 

Just  over  the  way  there's  a  flood  of  light. 
And  warmth  and  beauty,  and  all  things  bright ; 
Beautiful  children,  in  robes  so  fair. 
Are  caroling  songs  in  rapture  there. 
I  wonder  if  they,  in  their  blissful  glee, 
Would  pity  a  poor  little  beggar  like  me. 


THE   HOME   CIRCLE. 


21 


Wandering  alone  in  the  merciless  street, 
Naked  and  shivering  and  nothing  to  eat. 

Oh  !  what  shall  I  do  when  the  night  comes  down 
In  its  terrible  blackness  all  over  the  town? 
Shall  I  lay  me  down  'neath  the  angry  sky, 
On  the  cold  hard  pavements  alone  to  die  ? 
When  the  beautiful  children  their  prayers  have  said, 
A.nd  mammas  have  tucked  them  up  snugly  in  bed. 
No  dear  mother  ever  upon  me  smiled — 
Why  is  it,  I  wonder,  that  I'm  nobody's  child  ! 

No  father,  no  mother,  no  sister,  not  one 
In  all  the  world  loves  me ;  e'en  the  little  dogs  run 
When  I  wander  too  near  them ;  'tis  wondrous  to  see. 
How  everything  shrinks  irom  a  beggar  like  me  1 
Perhaps  'tis  a  dream  ;  but,  sometimes,  when  I  lie 
Gazing  far  up  in  tlie  dark  blue  sky, 
Watching  for  hours  some  large  bright  star, 
I  fancy  the  beautiful  gates  are  ajar. 

And  a  host  of  white-robed,  nameless  things, 

Come  fluttering  o'er  me  in  gilded  wings  ; 

A  hand  that  is  strangely  soft  and  fair 

Caresses  gently  my  tangled  hair, 

And  a  voice  like  the  carol  of  some  wild  bird 

The  sweetest  voice  that  was  ever  heard — 

Calls  me  many  a  dear  pet  name, 

Till  my  heart  and  spirits  are  all  aflame  ; 

And  tells  me  of  such  unbounded  love, 
And  bids  me  come  up  to  their  home  above, 
And  then,  with  such  pitiful,  sad  surprise, 
They  look  at  me  with  their  sweet  blue  eyes, 
And  it  seems  to  me  out  of  the  dreary  night, 
I  am  going  up  to  the  world  of  light. 
And  away  from  the  hunger  and  storms  so  wild — 
I  am  sure  I  shall  then  be  somebody's  child. 

Phila  a.  Case. 


THE  OLD  HOUSE. 

'  M  standing  by  the  window-sill. 

Where  we  have  stood  of  yore ; 
The  sycamore  is  waving  still 

Its  branches  near  the  door  ; 
And  near  me  creeps  the  wild  rose-vine 

On  which  our  wreaths  were  hung, — 
Still  round  the  porch  its  tendrils  twine, 

As  when  we  both  were  young. 

The  little  path  that  used  to  lead 

Down  by  the  river  shore 
Is  overgrown  with  brier  and  weed — 

Not  level  as  before. 
But  there's  no  change  upon  the  hill, 

From  whence  our' voices  rung — 
The  violets  deck  the  summit  still, 

As  when  we  both  were  young. 

And  yonder  is  the  old  oak-tree, 

Beneath  whose  spreading  shade, 
When  our  young  hearts  were  light  and  free, 

In  innocence  we  played  ; 
And  over  there  the  meadow  gate 

On  which  our  playmates  swung, 
Still  standing  in  its  rustic  state. 

As  when  we  both  were  young. 

Louise  Chandler  Mollton. 


KISSES. 

'HE  kiss  of  friendship,  kind  and  calm, 
May  fall  upon  the  brow  l.ike  balm; 
A  deeper  tenderness  may  speak 
In  precious  pledges  on  the  cheek  ; 
Thrice  dear  may  be,  when  young  lips  meet. 
Love's  dewy  pressure,  close  and  sweet; — 
But  more  than  all  the  rest  I  prize 
The  faithful  lips  that  kiss  my  eyes. 

Smile,  lady,  smile,  when  courtly  lips 
Touch  reverently  your  finger-tips; 
Blush,  happy  maiden,  when  you  feel 
The  lips  which  press  love's  glowing  seal; 
But  as  the  slow  years  darklier  roll. 
Grown  wiser,  the  e.xperienced  soul 
Will  own  as  dearer  far  than  they 
The  lips  which  kiss  the  tears  away  ! 

Elizabeth  Akers  Allen. 


THE  DEAREST  SPOT  OF  EARTH  'S  HOME. 


HE  dearest  spot  of  earth  to  me 
Is  home,  sweet  home  ! 
The  fairy  land  I  long  to  see 
Is  home,  sweet  home  ! 
There,  how  charmed  the  sense  of  hearing  ! 
There,  where  lov&^is  so  endearing  I 
All  the  world  is  not  so  cheering 
As  home,  sweet  home  1 

The  dearest  spot  of  earth  to  me 

Is  home,  sweet  home  ! 
The  fairy  land  I  long  to  see 

Is  home,  sweet  home  ! 

I've  taught  my  heart  the  way  to  prize 

My  home,  sweet  home  ! 
I've  learned  to  look  with  lovers'  eyes 

On  home,  sweet  home  1 
There,  where  vows  are  truly  plighted  ! 
There,  where  hearts  are  so  united  ! 
All  the  world  besides  I've  slighted 

For  home,  sweet  home  1 

•  The  dearest  spot  of  earth  to  me 
Is  home,  sweet  home  I 
The  fairy  land  I  long  to  see 
Is  home,  sweet  home  I 

W.  T.  Wrighto: 


22 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


WHICH  SHALL  IT  BE? 

The  following  poem  is  founded  upon  an  incident  where  a  ricli 
neighbor  oflered  to  make  a  poor  family  comfortable,  and  provide 
for  the  child,  if  one  of  the  seven  were  given  to  him. 


a 


w 


'HIGH  shall  it  be ?  which  shall  it  be  ? " 
I  looked  at  John, — John  looked  at  me. 
(Dear,  patient  John,  who  loves  me  yet 
As  well  as  though  my  locks  were  jet) 

And  when  I  found  that  I  must  speak, 

My  voice  seemed  strangely  low  and  weak  ; 

"  Tell  me  again  what  Robert  said  ; " 

And  then  I  listening  bent  my  head. 

"This  is  his  letter  : 

'  I  will  give 

A  house  and  land  while  you  shall  live. 

If,  in  return,  from  out  your  seven, 

One  child  to  me  for  aye  is  given.'  " 

I  looked  at  John's  old  garments  woni, 

I  thouglit  of  all  that  John  had  bome 

Of  poverty,  and  work,  and  care, 

Wiich  I,  though  willing,  could  not  share ; 

Of  seven  hungry  mouths  to  feed, 

Of  seven  little  children's  need, 

And  then  of  this. 

"  Come,  John,"  said  I 
"We'll  choose  among  them  as  they  lie 
Asleep  ;"  so  walking  hand  in  hand, 
Dear  John  and  I  surveyed  our  band. 

First  to  the  cradle  lightly  stepped, 

Where  Lilian,  tlie  baby  slept ; 

Her  damp  curls  lay,  like  gold  alight, 

A  glory  'gainst  the  pillow  white  ; 

Softly  her  fatlier  stoojied  to  lay 

His  rough  hand  down  in  loving  way, 

Wlien  dream  or  whisper  made  her  stir. 

And  huskily  he  said,  "  Not  /in-." 

We  stooped  beside  the  trundle-bed, 

And  one  long  ray  of  lamp-light  shed 

Athw-art  the  boyish  faces  tliere. 

In  sleep  so  pitiful  and  fair. 

I  saw  on  Jamie's  rough  red  cheek 

A  tear  undried  ;  ere  John  could  speak, 

"  lie's  but  a  baby  too,"  said  I, 

And  Icissed  him  as  we  hurried  by. 

Pale,  patient  Robby's  angel  face 

Still  in  his  sleep  bore  suffering's  trace  ; 

"  No,  for  a  thousand  crowns,  not  <4/w;," 

He  whispered,  while  our  eyes  were  dim. 

Poor  Dick  !  sad  Dick  !  our  wayward  son, 

Turbulent,  reckless,  idle  one, — 

Could  /le  be  spared  ?    "  Nay,  he  who  gave 

Bids  us  befriend  him  to  the  grave  ; 

Only  a  mother's  heart  can  be 

Patient  enough  for  such  as  he  ; 

And  so,"  said  John,  "  I  would  not  dare 

To  send  him  from  her  bedside  prayer." 


Then  stole  we  softly  up  above. 

And  knelt  by  Mary,  child  of  love  ; 

"  Perhaps  for  /ler  'twould  better  be," 

I  said  to  John.     Quite  silently 

He  lifted  up  a  curl,  that  lay 

Across  her  cheek  in  wilful  way, 

And  shook  his  head  :  "  Nay,  love,  not  thee ;" 

The  while  my  heart  beat  audibly. 

Only  one  more,  our  eldest  lad. 

Trusty  and  truthful,  good  and  glad,— 

So  like  his  father :  "  No,  John,  no  ; 

I  cannot,  will  not,  let  Mm  go  ! " 

And  so  we  wrote,  in  courteous  way, 
We  could  not  give  one  child  away  ; 
And  afterward  toil  lighter  seemed, 
Thinking  of  that  of  which  we  dreamed  ; 
Happy,  in  truth,  that  not  one  face 
We  missed  from  its  accustomed  place  ; 
Thankful  to  work  for  a//  i/ie  seven, 
Trusting  then  to  one  in  heaven. 


LEARNING  TO  PRAY, 

T/5)  KEELING,  fair  in  the  twilight  gray, 
^\  A  beautiful  child  was  trying  to  pray ; 

-*-   ^     His  cheek  on  his  mother's  knee, 
His  bare  little  feet  half  hidden, 
His  smile  still  coming  unbidden, 
And  his  heart  brimful  of  glee. 

"  I  want  to  laugh.     Is  it  naughty  ?    Say, 

0  mamma  !  I've  had  such  fun  to-day 

1  hardly  can  say  my  prayers. 
I  don't  feel  just  like  praying  ; 

I  want  to  be  out-doors  playing. 
And  run,  all  undressed,  down  stairs. 

"I  can  see  the  flowers  in  the  garden-bed, 
Shining  so  pretty,  and  sweet,  and  red  ; 
And  Sammy  is  swinging,  I  guess. 
Oh  1  everything  is  so  fine  out  there, 
I  want  to  put  it  all  in  the  prayer, — 
Do  you  mean  I  can  do  it  by  '  Yes  ?' 

"When  I  say,  'Now  I  lay  me— word  for  word, 
It  seems  to  me  as  if  nobody  heard. 
Would  'Thank  you,  dear  God,'  be  right? 

He  gave  me  my  mamma. 

And  papa,  and  Sammy — 
O  mamma  !  you  nodded  I  might." 

Clasping  his  hands  and  hiding  his  face, 
Unconsciously  yearning  for  help  and  grace. 
The  little  one  now  began  ; 

His  mother's  nod  and  sanction  sweet 
Had  led  him  close  to  the  dear  Lord's  feet, 
And  his  words  like  music  ran  : 

"Thank  you  for  making  this  home  so  nice, 
The  flowers,  and  my  two  white  mice, — 


THE   HOME   CIRCLE. 


23 


I  wish  I  could  keep  right  on  ; 

I  thank  you,  too,  for  every  day — 

Only  I'm  most  too  glad  to  pray, 
Dear  God,  I  think  I'm  done. 

"Now,  mamma,  rock  me — ju^t  a  minute — 
And  sing  the  hymn  with  'darling'  in  it. 
I  wish  I  could  say  my  prayers  ! 

When  I  get  big,  I  know  I  can. 

Oh  !  won't  it  be  nice  to  be  a  man 
And  stay  all  night  down  stairs  !" 

The  mother,  singing,  clasped  him  tight, 
Kissing  and  cooing  her  fond  "Good-night," 
And  treasured  his  every  word. 
For  well  she  knew  that  the  artless  joy 
And  love  of  her  precious,  innocent  boy, 
Were  a  prayer  that  her  Lord  had  heard. 

Mary  E.  Dodge. 

THE  HOUSE  IN  THE  MEADOW 

'  T  stands  in  a  sunny  meadow. 

The  house  so  mossy  and  brown. 
With  its  cumbrous  old  stone  chimneys, 
And  the  gray  roof  sloping  down. 

The  trees  fold  their  green  arms  around  it, — 

The  trees  a  century  old  ; 
And  the  winds  go  chanting  through  them. 

And  the  sunbeams  drop  their  gold. 

The  cowslips  spring  in  the  marshes. 

The  roses  bloom  on  the  hill. 
And  beside  the  brook  in  the  pasture 

The  herds  go  feeding  at  will. 

Within,  in  the  wide  old  kitchen. 

The  old  folks  sit  in  the  sun, 
That  creeps  through  the  sheltering  woodbine. 

Till  the  day  is  almost  done. 

Their  children  have  gone  and  left  them  t 

They  sit  in  the  sun  alone  ! 
And  the  old  wife's  ears  are  failing 

As  she  harks  to  the  well-known  tone 

That  won  her  heart  in  her  girlhood. 
That  has  soothed  her  in  many  a  care. 

And  praises  her  now  for  the  brightness 
Her  old  face  used  to  wear. 

She  tliinks  again  of  her  bridal, — 
How,  dressed  in  her  robe  of  white, 

She  stood  by  her  gay  young  lover 
In  the  morning's  rosy  light. 

O,  the  morning  is  rosy  as  ever, 

But  the  rose  from  her  cheek  is  fled  ; 

And  the  sunshine  still  is  golden, 
But  it  falls  on  a  silvered  head. 

And  the  girlhood  dreams,  once  vanished. 
Come  back  in  her  winter-time, 


Till  her  feeble  pulses  tremble 
With  the  thrill  of  spring-time's  prime. 

And  looking  forth  from  the  window, 
She  tliinks  how  the  trees  have  grown 

Since,  clad  in  her  bridal  whiteness, 
She  crossed  the  old  door-stone. 

Though  dimmed  her  eyes'  bright  azure. 
And  dimmed  her  hair's  young  gold, 

The  love  in  her  girlhood  plighted 
Has  never  grown  dim  or  old. 

They  sat  in  peace  in  the  sunshine 

Till  the  day  was  almost  done. 
And  then,  at  its  close,  an  angel 

Stole  over  the  threshold  stone. 

He  folded  their  hands  together, — 
He  touched  their  eyelids  with  balm, 

And  their  last  breath  floated  outward, 
Like  the  close  of  a  solemn  psalm  ! 

Like  a  bridal  pair  they  traversed 

The  unseen,  mystical  road 
That  leads  to  the  Beautiful  City, 

Whose  builder  and  maker  is  God. 

Perhaps  in  that  miracle  country 
They  will  give  her  lost  youth  back. 

And  the  flowers  of  the  vanished  spring-time 
Will  bloom  in  the  spirit's  track. 

One  draught  from  the  living  waters 
Shall  call  back  his  manhood's  prime 

And  eternal  years  shall  measure 
The  love  that  outlasted  time. 

But  the  shapes  that  they  left  behind  them. 

The  wrinkles  and  silver  hair, — 
Made  holy  to  us  by  the  kisses 

The  angel  had  printed  there, — 

We  will  hide  away  'neath  the  willows, 
When  the  day  is  low  in  the  west. 

Where  the  sunbeams  cannot  find  them. 
Nor  the  winds  disturb  their  rest. 

And  we'll  suffer  no  telltale  tombstone, 

With  its  age  and  date,  to  rise 
O'er  the  two  who  are  old  no  longer, 

In  the  Father's  house  in  the  skies. 

Louise  Chandler  Moulton. 


CONDUCT  AT  HOME. 

HE    angry    word    suppressed,    the    taunting 
thought ; 
Subduing  and  subdued,  the  petty  strife, 
Which  clouds  the  color  of  domestic  life; 
The  sober  comfort, all  the  peace  which  springs 
From  the  large  aggregate  of  little  things  ; 
On  these  small  cares  of  daughter,  wife,  or  friend. 
The  almost  sacred  joys  of  home  depend. 

Hannah  More. 


24 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


MY  OLD  KENTUCKY  HOME 

^^  •  HE  sun  shines  bright  in  our  old   Kentucky 
^\  home ; 

VJi^     'T  is  summer,  the  darkeys  are  gay  ; 
'f'    The  corn  top's  ripe  and  tiie  meadow's  in  the 
bloom, 
While  the  birds  make  music  all  the  day  ; 
The  young  folks  roll  on  the  little  cabin  floor, 

AH  merry,  all  happy,  all  bright ; 
By'mby  hard  times  comes  a  knockin'  at  the  door, — 

Then,  my  old  Kentucky  home,  good  night  I 
Weep  no  more,  my  lady  ;  O,  weep  no  more  to-day  ! 
We'll  sing  one  song  for  the  old  Kentucky  home, 
For  our  old  Kentucky  home  far  away. 

They  hunt  no  more  for  the  possum  and  the  coon, 

On  the  meadow,  the  hill,  and  the  shore  ; 
They  sing  no  more  by  the  glimmer  of  the  moon. 

On  the  bench  by  the  old  cabin  door  ; 
The  day  goes  by,  like  the  shadow  o'er  the  heart. 

With  sorrow  where  all  was  delight ; 
The  time  has  come,  when  the  darkeys  have  to  part, 

Then,  my  old  Kentucky  home,  good  night ! 

The  head  must  bow,  and  the  back  will  have  to  bend, 

Wherever  the  darkey  may  go  ; 
A  few  more  days,  and  the  troubles  all  will  end, 

In  the  field  where  the  sugar-cane  grow  ; 
A  few  more  days  to  tote  the  weary  load, 

No  matter,  it  will  never  be  light ; 
A  few  more  days  till  we  totter  on  the  road. 

Then,  my  old  Kentucky  home,  good  night ! 

Stephen  Collins  Foster. 

THE  WORN  WEDDING-RING. 

■  OUR  wedding-ring  wears  thin,    dear  wife ;  ah, 
summers  not  a  few. 
Since  I  put  it  on  your  finger  first,  have  passed 
o'er  me  and  you  ; 
And,  love,  what  changes  we  have  seen, — what  cares 

and  pleasures,  too, — 
Since  you  became  my  own  dear  wife,  when  this  old 
ring  was  new  1 

O,  blessings  on  that  happy  day,  the  happiest  of  my  life, 
When,  thanks  to  God,  your  low,  sweet  "Yes"  made 

you  my  loving  wif.:; ! 
Your  heart  will  say  the  same,  I  know ;  that  day's  as 

dear  to  you, — 
That  day  that  made  me  yours,  dear  wife,  when  this  old 

ring  was  new. 

How  well  do  I  remember  now  your  young  sweet  face 

that  day  I 
How  f;iir  you  were,  how  dear  you  were,  my  tongue 

could  hardly  say  ; 
Nor  how  I  doated  on  you ;  O,  how  proud  I  was  of  you  ! 
But  did  I  love  you  more  than  now,  when  this  old  ring 

was  new  ? 


No— no  !  no  fairer  were  you  then  than  at  this  hour  to 

nii; ; 
And,  dear  as  life  to  me  this  day,  how  could  you  dearer 

be? 
As  sweet  your  face  might  be  that  day  as  now  it  is,  'tis 

true  ; 
But  did  I  know  your  heart  as  well  when  this  old  ring 

was  new  ? 

Years  bring  fresh  links  to  bind  us,  wife, — young  voices 

that  are  here ; 
Young  faces  round  our  fire  that  make  their  mother's 

yet  more  dear ; 
Young  loving  hearts  your  care  each  day  makes  yet 

more  like  to  you. 
More  like  the  loving  heart  made  mine  when  this  old 

ring  was  new. 

The  past  is  dear,  its  sweetness  still  our  memories  treas- 
ure yet ; 

The  griefs  we've  borne,  together  borne,  we  would  not 
now  forget. 

Whatever,  wife,  the  future  brings,  heart  unto  heart  stili 
true. 

We'll  share  as  we  have  shared  all  else  since  this  old 
ring  was  new. 

And  if  God  spares  us  'mongst  our  sons  and  daughters 

to  grow  old, 
We  know  His  goodness  will  not  let  your  heart  or  mine 

grow  cold. 
Your  aged  eyes  will  see  in  mine  all  they've  still  shown 

to  you, 
And  mine  in  yours  all  they  have  seen  since  this  old 

ring  was  new. 

And  O,  when  death  shall  come  at  last  to  bid  me  to  me- 
rest. 

May  I  die  looking  in  those  eyes,  and  resting  on  that 
breast ; 

O,  may  my  parting  gaze  be  blessed  with  the  dear  siglU 
of  you. 

Of  those  fond  eyes, — fond  as  they  were  when  this  old 
ring  was  new ! 

William  Cox  Bennett. 


FILIAL  LOVE. 

HERE  is  a  dungeon  in  whose  dim  drear  light 
What  do  I  gaze  on  ?    Nothing :  look  again  ! 
Two  forms  are  slowly  shadowed  on  my  sight, — 
*!*        Two  insulated  phantoms  of  the  brain  : 
It  is  not  so  ;  I  see  them  full  and  plain, — 
An  old  man  and  a  female  young  and  fair, 
Fresh  as  a  nursing  mother,  in  whose  vein 
The  blood  is  nectar  :  but  what  dotli  she  there. 
With  her  unmantled  neck,  and  bosom  white  and  bare  ? 

Full  swells  the  deep  pure  fountain  of  young  life, 
Where  on  the  heart  Rud/rotn  the  heart  we  took 
Our  first  and  sweetest  nurture,  when  the  wife, 


THE  HOME  CIRCLE. 


25 


Blest  into  mother,  in  the  innocent  look, 
Or  even  the  piping  cry  of  lips  that  brook 

'    No  pain  and  small  suspense,  a  joy  perceives 
Man  knows  not,  when  from  out  its  cradled  nook 
Siie  S3es  her  little  bud  jxit  forth  its  leaves — 

What  may  the  fruit  be  yet?     I  know  not — Cain  was 
Eve's. 

But  here  youth  offers  to  old  age  the  food. 
The  milk  of  his  own  gift ;  it  is  her  sire 
To  whom  she  renders  back  the  debt  of  blood 
Born  with  her  birth.     No  !  he  shall  not  expire 
While  in  those  warm  and  lovely  veins  the  fire 
Of  health  and  holy  feeling  can  provide 
Great  Nature's  Nile,  whose  deep  stream  rises  higher 
Than  Egypt's  river ; — from  that  gentle  side 
Drink,  drink  and  live,  old  man  !  Heaven's  realm  holds 
no  such  tide. 

The  starry  fable  of  the  milky-way 
Has  not  thy  story's  purity  ;  it  is 
A  constellation  of  a  sweeter  ray. 
And  sacred  Nature  triumphs  more  in  this 
Reverse  of  her  decree,  than  in  the  abyss 
Where  sparkle  distant  worids : — O,  holiest  nurse  ! 
No  drop  of  that  clear  stream  its  way  shall  miss 
To  thy  sire's  heart,  replenishing  its  source 
With  life,  as  our  freed  souls  rejoin  the  universe. 

Lord  Bvron. 


birth  and  power ;  the  poor  man's  attachment  to  the 
tenement  he  holds,  which  strangers  have  held  before, 
and  may  to-morrow  occupy  again,  has  a  worthier 
root,  struck  deep  into  a  purer  soil.  His  household 
gods  are  of  flesh  and  blood,  with  no  alloy  of  silver, 
gold,  or  precious  stones ;  he  has  no  property  but  in 
the  affections  of  his  own  heart ;  and  when  they  endear 
bare  floors  and  walls,  despiteof  toil  and  scanty  meals, 
that  man  has  his  love  of  home  from  God,  and  his  rude 
hut  becomes  a  solemn  place. 

Charles  Dickens. 


X 


JOHN  ANDERSON,  MY  JO. 

'OHN  ANDERSON,  my  jo,  John, 

When  we  were  first  accjuent, 
Your  locks  were  like  the  raven, 

Your  bonnie  brow  was  brent ; 
But  now  your  brow  is  held,  John, 

Your  locks  are  like  the  snaw ; 
But  blessings  on  your  frosty  pow, 

John  Anderson,  my  jo. 

John  Anderson,  my  jo,  John, 

We  clamb  the  hill  thegither ; 
And  monie  a  canty  day,  John, 

We've  had  wi'  ane  anither. 
Now  we  maun  totter  down,  John, 

But  hand  in  hand  we'll  go : 
And  sleep  thegither  at  the  foot, 

John  Anderson,  my  jo. 

Robert  Burns. 


AFFECTIONS  OF  HOME. 

'I*  F  ever  household  affections  and  loves  are  grace- 
•&•  ful  things,  they  are  graceful  in  the  poor.  The 
X  ties  that  bind  the  wealthy  and  the  proud  to 
I  home,  may  be  forged  on  earth,  but  those  which 
link  the  poor  man  to  his  humble  hearth,  are  of 
the  true  metal,  and  bear  the  stamp  of  heaven.  The 
man  of  high  descent  may  love  the  halls  and  lands  of 
his  inheritance  as  a  part  of  himself,  as  trophies  of  his 


LAY  THY  HAND  IN  MINE,  DEAR! 

LAY  thy  hand  in  mine,  dear  ! 

We're  growing  old  ; 
But  Time  hath  brought  no  sign,  dear. 

That  hearts  grow  cold. 
'Tis  long,  long  since  our  new  love 

Made  life  divine  ; 
But  age  enricheth  true  love. 

Like  noble  wine. 

And  lay  thy  cheek  to  mine,  dear, 

And  take  thy  rest ; 
Mine  arms  around  thee  twine,  dear, 

And  make  thy  nest. 
A  many  cares  are  pressing 

On  this  dear  head  ; 
But  Sorrow's  hands  in  blessing 

Are  surely  laid. 

O,  lean  thy  life  on  mine,  dear ! 

'T  will  shelter  thee. 
Thou  wert  a  winsome  vine,  dear, 

On  my  young  tree  : 
And  so,  till  boughs  are  leafless. 

And  songbirds  flown. 
We'll  twine,  then  lay  us,  griefless. 

Together  down. 

Gerald  Massky. 

THE  ABSENT  ONES. 


SHALL  leave  the  old  house  in  the  autumn. 
To  traverse  its  threshold  no  more  ; 
Ah  !  how  shall  I  sigh  for  the  dear  ones 
That  meet  me  each  morn  at  the  door  ! 
I  shall  miss  the  "good  nights"  and  the  kisses, 

And  the  gush  of  their  innocent  glee. 
The  group  on  its  green,  and  the  flowers 
That  are  brought  every  morning  to  me. 

I  shall  miss  them  at  morn  and  at  even. 

Their  song  in  the  school  and  the  street ; 
I  shall  miss  the  low  hum  of  their  voices, 

And  the  tread  of  their  delicate  feet. 
When  the  lessons  of  life  are  all  ended. 

And  death  says,  "  The  school  is  dismissed  !"' 
May  the  little  ones  gather  around  me, 

To  bid  me  good  night  and  be  kissed  ! 

Charles  M.  Dickinson. 


26 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


A  PICTURE. 

'HE  former  sat  in  his  easy-chair, 
Smoking  his  pipe  of  ciay, 
While  his  hale  old.  wife,  wiih  busy  care, 
'f'  Was  clearing  the  dinner  away  ; 

A  sweet  little  girl,  with  fine  blue  eyes, 
On  her  grandfather's  knee  was  catching  flies. 

The  old  man  laid  his  hand  on  her  head, 

With  a  tear  on  his  wrinkled  face  ; 
He  thought  how  often  her  mother,  dead. 

Had  sat  in  the  self-same  place. 
As  the  tear  stole  down  from  his  half-shut  eye, 
"  Don't  smoke  1"  said  the  child ;  "  how  it  makes  you 
cry  1" 

The  house-dog  lay  stretched  out  on  the  floor, 
Where  the  shade  after  noon  used  to  steal ; 

The  busy  old  wife,  by  the  open  door, 
W^as  turning  the  spinning-wheel ; 

And  the  old  brass  clock  on  the  mantel-tree 

Had  plodded  along  to  almost  three. 

Still  the  farmer  sat  in  his  easy-chair, 

While  close  to  his  heaving  breast 
The  moistened  brow  and  the  cheek  so  fair 

Of  his  sweet  grandchild  were  pressed  ; 
His  head,  bent  down,  on  her  soft  hair  lay  : 
Fast  asleep  were  they  both,  that  summer  day  ! 

Charles  Gamage  Eastman. 

THE  POET'S  SONG  TO  HIS  WIFE. 

'  OW  many  summers,  love. 

Have  I  been  thine  ? 
How  many  days,  thou  dove. 

Hast  thou  been  mine  ? 
Time,  like  the  winged  wind 

When  't  bends  the  flowers. 
Hath  left  no  mark  behind. 

To  count  the  hours ! 

Some  weight  of  thought,  though  loath. 

On  thee  he  leaves  ; 
Some  lines  of  care  round  both 

Perhaps  he  weaves ; 
Some  fears, — a  soft  regret  ^ 

For  joys  scarce  known ; 
Sweet  looks  we  half  forget ; — 

All  else  is  flown ! 

Ah  ! — ^With  what  thankless  heart 

I  mourn  and  sing ! 
Look,  where  our  children  start, 
•    Like  sudden  spring  ! 
With  tongues  all  sweet  and  low 

Like  a  pleasant  rhyme, 
They  tell  how  much  I  owe 

To  thee  and  time  ! 
Bryan  Waller  Procter  {Darry  Cornwall.) 


HOMES\CK. 

eOME  to  me,  O  my  Mother !  come  to  ?ne. 
Thine  own  son  slowly  dying  far  away ! 
Through  the  moist  ways  of  the  wide  ocean, 
blown 
By  great  invisible  winds,  come  stately  ships 
To  this  calm  bay  for  quiet  anchorage ; 
They  come,  they  rest  awhile,  they  go  away. 
But,  O  my  Mother,  never  comest  thou  ! 
The  snow  is  round  thy  dwelling,  the  white  snow. 
That  cold  soft  revelation  pure  as  light. 
And  the  pine-spire  is  mystically  fringed. 
Why  am  I  from  thee,  Mother,  far  from  thee  ? 
Far  from  the  frost  enchantment,  and  the  woods 
Jewelled  from  bough  to  bough  ?    O  home,  my  home  \ 
O  river  in  the  valley  of  my  home, 
With  mazy-winding  motion  intricate. 
Twisting  thy  deathless  music  underneath 
The  polished  ice-work — must  I  nevermore 
Behold  thee  with  familiar  eyes,  and  watch 
Thy  beauty  changing  wilh  the  changeful  day. 
Thy  beauty  constant  to  the  constant  change? 

David  Gray. 


MY  WIFE'S  A  WINSOME  WEE  THING. 

HE  is  a  winsome  wee  thing, 
Slie  is  a  handsome  wee  thing, 
She  is  a  bonnie  wee  thing, 
This  sweet  wee  wife  o'  mine. 

I  never  saw  a  fairer, 

I  never  lo'ed  a  dearer, 

And  neist  my  heart  I'll  wear  her, 

For  fear  my  jewel  tine. 

She  is  a  winsome  wee  thing, 
She  is  a  handsome  wee  thing. 
She  is  a  bonnie  wee  thing, 
This  sweet  wee  wife  o'  mine. 

The  warld's  wTack  we  share  o't. 
The  warstle  and  the  care  o't : 
Wi'  her  I'll  blythely  bear  it, 
And  think  my  lot  divine. 

Robert  Burns. 


THE   RECONCILIATION. 

S  through  the  land  at  eve  we  went. 
And  pluck'd  the  ripen'd  ears, 
We  fell  out,  my  wife  and  I, — 
Oh,  we  fell  out,  I  know  not  why,* 
And  kiss'd  again  with  tears. 

For  when  we  came  where  lies  the  child 

We  lost  in  other  years. 
There  above  the  little  grave. 
Oh,  there  above  the  little  grave, 

We  kiss'd  again  wilh  tears. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


THE   HOME   CIRCLE. 


27 


I  KNEW  BY  THE  SMOKE  THAT  SO  GRACE- 
FULLY CURLED. 

KNEW  by  the  smoke  that  so  gracefully  curled 
Above  the  green  elms,  that  a  cottage  was  near, 
And  I  said,  "  If  there's  peace  to  be  found  in  the 
world, 
A  heart  that  is  humble  might  hope  for  it  here  ! " 

It  was  noon,  and  on  flowers  that  languished  around 

In  silence  reposed  the  voluptuous  bee  ; 
Every  leaf  was  at  rest,  and  I  heard  not  a  sound 

But  the  woodpecker  tapping  the  hollow  beech-tree. 

And  "  Here  in  this  lone  little  wood,"  I  exclaimed, 
"  With  a  maid  who  was  lovely  to  soul  and  to  eye, 

Who  would  blush  when  I  praised  her,  and  weep  if  I 
blamed, 
How  blest  could  I  live,  and  how  calm  could  I  die ! 

"  By  the  shade  of  yon  sumach,  whose  red  berry  dips 
In  the  gush  of  the  fountain,  how  sweet  to  recline, 

And  to  know  that  I  sighed  upon  innocent  lips. 
Which  had  never  been  sighed  on  by  any  but  mine ! " 

Thomas  Moore. 


ADAM  TO  EVE. 

FAIREST  of  creation,  last  and  best 
Of  all  God's  works,  creature  in  whom  ex- 
celled 
^         Whatever  can  to  sight  or  thought  be  formed, 
,Holy,  divine,  good,  amiable,  or  sweet ! 
.How  art  thou  lost,  how  on  a  sudden  lost, 
Defaced,  deflowered,  and  now  to  death  devote  ! 
Rather,  how  hast  thou  yielded  to  transgress 
The  strict  forbiddance,  how  to  violate 
The  sacred  fruit  forbidden  !    Some  cursed  fraud 
Of  enemy  hath  beguiled  thee,  yet  unknown. 
And  me  with  thee  hath  ruined,  for  with  thee 
Certain  my  resolution  is  to  die. 
How  can  I  live  without  thee,  how  forego 
Thy  sweet  converse,  and  love  so  dearly  joined. 
To  live  again  in  these  wild  woods  forlorn  ? 
Should  God  create  another  Eve,  and  I 
Another  rib  afford,  yet  loss  of  thee 
Would  never  from  my  heart ;  no,  no,  I  feel 
The  link  of  nature  draw  me  :  flesh  of  flesh. 
Bone  of  my  bone  thou  art,  and  from  thy  state 
Mine  never  shall  be  parted,  bliss  or  woe. 

However,  I  with  thee  have  fixed  my  lot. 
Certain  to  undergo  like  doom  ;  if  death 
Consort  with  thee,  death  is  to  me  as  life  ; 
So  forcible  within  my  heart  I  feel 
The  bond  of  nature  draw  me  to  my  own. 
My  own  in  thee,  for  what  thou  ait  is  mine  ; 
Our  state  cannot  be  severed,  we  are  one, 
One  flesh  ;  to  lose  thee  were  to  lose  mystlf. 

John  Milton. 


IB 


A  WISH. 

INE  be  a  cot  beside  the  hill ; 
A  beehive's  hum  shall  soothe  my  ear ; 
A  willowy  brook  that  turns  the  mill, 
With  many  a  fall  shall  linger  near. 

The  swallow,  oft,  beneath  my  thatch, 
Shalt  twitter  from  her  clay-built  nest ; 
Oft  shall  the  pilgrim  lift  the  latch, 
And  share  my  meal,  a  welcome  guest. 

Around  my  ivied  porch  shall  spring 
Each  fragrant  flower  that  drinks  the  dew, 
And  Lucy,  at  her  wheel,  shall  sing 
In  russet  gown  and  apron  blue. 

The  village-church  among  the  trees, 
When  first  our  marriage-vows  were  given. 
With  merry  peals  shall  swell  the  breeze 
And  point  with  taper  spire  to  heaven. 

Samuel  Rogers. 

THE  OLD  LOG    CABIN. 


T  is  only  shallow-minded  pretenders  who  either 
make  distinguished  origin  a  matter  of  personal 
merit,  or  obscure  origin  a  matter  of  personal  re- 
proach. Taunt  and  scoffing  at  the  humble  con- 
dition of  early  life  aflfect  nobody  in  America  but  those 
who  are  foolish  enough  to  indulge  in  them  ;  and  they 
are  generally  sufficiently  punished  by  public  rebuke. 
A  man  who  is  not  ashamed  of  himself  need  not  be 
ashamed  of  his  early  condition.  It  did  not  happen  to 
me  to  be  born  in  a  log  cabin ;  but  my  elder  brothers 
and  sisters  were  bom  in  a  log  cabin,  raised  among  the 
snow-drifts  of  New  Hampshire,  at  a  period  so  early, 
that  when  the  smoke  first  rose  from  its  rude  chimney 
and  curled  over  the  frozen  hills,  there  was  no  similar 
evidence  of  a  white  man's  habitation  between  it  and  the 
settlements  on  the  rivers  of  Canada. 

Its  remains  still  exist.  I  make  to  it  an  annual  visit. 
I  carr>'  my  children  to  it,  to  teach  them  the  hardships 
endured  by  the  generations  which  have  gone  before 
them.  I  love  to  dwell  on  the  tender  recollections,  the 
kindred  ties,  tlie  early  affections,  and  the  touching  nar- 
ratives and  incidents  which  mingle  with  all  I  know  of 
this  primitive  family  abode.  I  weep  to  think  that  none 
of  those  who  inhabited  it  are  now  among  the  living ; 
and  if  ever  I  am  ashamed  of  it,  or  if  ever  I  fail  in  affec- 
tionate veneration  for  him  who  reared  it,  and  defended 
it  against  savage  violence  and  destruction,  cherished 
all  the  domestic  virtues  beneath  its  roof,  and,  through 
the  fire  and  blood  of  a  seven  years'  revolutionary  war, 
shrunk  from  no  danger,  no  toil,  no  sacrifice,  to  serve 
his  country,  and  to  raise  his  children  to  a  condition 
better  than  his  own,  may  my  name,  and  the  name  of 
my  posterity,  be  blotted  forever  from  the  memory  of 
mankind ! 

Daniel  Webster. 


28 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


THE  HAPPY  MAN. 

'E'S  not  the  Happy  Man  to  whom  is  given 
A  plenteous  fortune  by  indulgent  Heaven  ; 
Whose  gilded  roofs  on  shining  columns  rise, 
And  painted  walls  enchant  the  gazer's  eyes ; 

Whose  table  flows  with  hospitable  cheer, 

And  all  the  various  bounty  of  the  year ; 

Whose  valleys  smile,  whose  gardens  breathe  the  spring. 

Whose  carved  mountains  bleat,  and  forests  sing ; 

For  whom  the  cooling  shade  in  Summer  twines. 

While  his  full  cellars  give  their  generous  wines  ; 

From  whose  wide  fields  unbounded  Autumn  pour 

A  golden  tide  into  his  swelling  stores ; 

Whose  winter  laughs ;  for  whom  the  liberal  gales 

Stretch  the  big  sheet,  and  toiling  commerce  sails ; 

When  yielding  crowds  attend,  and  pleasure  serves ; 

While  youth,  and  health,  and  vigor  string  his  nerves. 

Ev'n  not  all  these,  in  one  rich  lot  combined. 

Can  make  the  Happy  Man,  without  the  mind; 

When  Judgment  sits  clear-sighted,  and  surveys 

The  chain  of  Reason  with  unerring  gaze ; 

Where  Fancy  lives,  and  to  the  brightening  eyes, 

His  fairer  scenes  and  bolder  figures  rise ; 

Where  social  Love  exerts  her  soft  command. 

And  plays  the  passions  with  a  tender  hand, 

Whence  every  virtue  flows,  in  rival  strife, 

And  all  the  moral  harmony  of  life. 

James  Thompson. 


m' 


MY  MOTHERS  PICTURE. 

Y  mother,  when  I  learned  that  thou    wast 

dead, 
Say,  was  thou    conscious    of  the   tears  I 

shed  ? 

Hovered  thy  spirit  o'er  thy  sorrowing  son — 
Wretch  even  then,  life's  journey  just  begun  ? 
I  heard  the  bell  tolled  on  thy  burial  day  ; 
I  saw  the  hearse  that  bore  thee  slow  away  ; 
And,  turning  from  my  nursery-window,  drew 
A  long,  long  sigh,  and  wept  a  last  adieu  ! 
But  was  it  such  ?  It  was.     Where  thou  art  gone, 
Adieus  and  farewells  are  a  sound  unknown  ; 
May  I  but  meet  thee  on  that  peaceful  shore, 
The  parting  word  shall  pass  my  lips  no  more. 
Thy  maidens,  grieved  themselves  at  my  concern, 
Oft  gave  me  promise  of  thy  quick  return  ; 
What  ardently  I  wished,  I  long  believed. 
And,  disappointed  still,  was  still  deceived — 
By  expectation  every  day  beguiled. 
Dupe  of  to-morrow  even  from  a  child. 
Thus  many  a  sad  to-morrow  came  and  went, 
Till,  all  my  stock  of  infant  sorrows  spent, 
I  learned  at  last  submission  to  my  lot ; 
But,  though  I  less  deplored  thee,  ne'er  forgot. 
Where  once  we  dwelt  our  name  is  heard  no  more  ; 
Children  not  thine  have  trod  my  nursery  floor  ; 
And  where  the  gardener  Robin,  day  by  day, 


Drew  me  to  school  along  the  public  way — 

Delighted  with  my  bauble  coach,  and  wrapped 

In  scarlet  mantle  warm,  and  velvet  cap, — 

Could  Time,  his  flight  reversed,  restore  the  hours 

When,  playing  with  thy  vesture's  tissued  flowers — 

The  violet,  the  pink,  the  jessamine — 

I  pricked  them  into  paper  with  a  pin, 

(And  thou  wast  happier  than  myself  the  while — 

Wouldst  softly  speak,  and  stroke  my  head  and  smile,) 

Could  those  few  pleasant  days  again  appear. 

Might  one  wish  bring  them,  would  I  wish  them  here  .' 

But  no  !  What  here  we  call  our  life  is  such, 

So  little  to  be  loved,  and  thou  so  much, 

That  I  should  ill  requite  thee  to  constrain 

Thy  unbound  spirit  into  bonds  again. 

William  Cowper. 


CHRISTMAS  TIME. 

*EAP  on  more  wood  !— the  wind  is  chill ; 
But  let  it  whistle  as  it  will, 
We'll  keep  our  Christmas  merry  still 
Each  age  has  deemed  the  new-born  year 
The  fittest  time  for  festal  cheer  : 
And  well  our  Christian  sires  of  old 
Loved  when  the  year  its  course  had  rolled, 
And  brought  blithe  Christmas  back  again, 
With  all  his  hospitable  train. 
Domestic  and  religious  rite 
Gave  honor  to  the  holy  night : 
On  Christmas  eve  the  bells  were  rung  ; 
On  Christmas  eve  the  mass  was  sung  ; 
That  only  night,  in  all  the  year. 
Saw  the  stoled  priest  the  chalice  rear. 
The  damsel  donned  her  kirtle  sheen  ; 
The  hall  was  dressed  with  holly  green  ; 
Forth  to  the  wood  did  merry-men  go. 
To  gather  in  the  mistletoe. 
Then  opened  wide  the  baron's  hall 
To  vassal,  tenant,  serf,  and  all ; 
Power  laid  his  rod  of  rule  aside, 
And  Ceremony  doffed  his  pride. 
The  heir,  with  roses  in  his  shoes. 
That  night  might  village  partner  choose  ; 
The  lord,  underogating,  share 
The  vulgar  game  of  "post  and  pair.'' 
All  hailed,  with  uncontrolled  delight 
And  general  voice,  the  happy  night 
That  to  the  cottage,  as  the  crown, 
Brought  tidings  of  salvation  down. 

The  fire,  with  well-dried  logs  supplied. 
Went  roaring  up  the  chimney  wide  ; 
The  huge  hall-table's  oaken  face, 
Scrubbed  till  it  shone  the  day  to  grace, 
Bore  then  upon  its  massive  board 
No  mark  to  part  the  squire  and  lord. 
Then  was  brought  in  the  lusty  brawn. 
By  old  blue-coated  serving-man  ; 


THE  HOME   CIRCLE. 


29 


Then  the  grim  boar's  head  frowned  on  high, 
Crested  with  bays  and  rosemary. 
Weil  can  the  green-garbed  ranger  tell 
How,  when  and  where  the  monster  fell ; 
What  dogs  before  his  death  he  tore, 
And  all  the  baiting  of  the  boar. 
The  wassail  round,  in  good  brown  bowls, 
Garnished  with  ribbons,  blithely  trowls. 
There  the  huge  sirloin  reeked  ;  hard  by 
Plum-porridge  stood,  and  Christmas  pie ; 
Nor  failed  old  Scotland  to  produce, 
At  such  high-tide,  her  savory  goose. 
Then  came  the  merry  maskers  in. 
And  carols  roared  with  blithesome  din  ; 
If  unmelodious  was  the  song, 
It  was  a  hearty  note,  and  strong. 
Who  lists  may  in  their  mumming  see 
Traces  of  ancient  mystery  ; 
White  skirts  supplied  the  masquerade, 
And  smutted  cheeks  the  visors  made  : 
But,  O,  what  maskers  richly  dight 
Can  boast  of  bosoms  half  so  light ! 
England  was  merry  England,  when 
Old  Christmas  brought  his  sports  again. 
'T  was  Christmas  broached  the  mightie.st  ale  ; 
'T  was  Christmas  told  the  merriest  tale  ; 
A  Christmas  gambol  oft  could  cheer 
The  poor  man's  heart  through  half  the  year. 
Sir  Walter  Scott. 


m 


THE  OLD  HEARTHSTONE. 

Y  son,  thou  wilt  dream  the  world  is  fair, 
And  thy  spirit  will  sigh  to  roam, 
And  thou  must  go  ;  but  never,  when  there, 
Forget  the  light  of  home  ! 


llJ 


Though  pleasure  may  smile  with  a  ray  more  bright, 

It  dazzles  to  lead  astray ; 
Like  the  meteor's  flash,  'twill  deepen  the  night 

When  treading  thy  lonely  way: — 

But  the  hearth  of  home  has  a  constant  flame, 

And  pure  as  vestal  fire — 
'Twill  bum,  'twill  burn  forever  tlie  same. 

For  nature  feeds  the  pyre. 

The  sea  of  ambition  is  tempest-toss'd. 
And  thy  hopes  may  vanish  like  foam — 

When  sails  are  shiver'd  and  compass  lost. 
Then  look  to  the  light  of  home  ! 

And  there,  like  a  star  tlirough  midnight  cloud, 

Thou'lt  see  the  beacon  bright ; 
For  never,  till  shining  on  thy  shroud. 

Can  be  quench'd  its  holy  light. 

The  sun  of  fame  may  guild  the  name. 

But  the  heart  ne'er  felt  its  ray ; 
And  fashion's  smiles,  that  rich  ones  claim, 

Are  beams  of  a  wintry  day : 


How  cold  and  dim  those  beams  would  be. 

Should  life's  poor  wanderer  come  [ — 
My  son,  when  the  world  is  dark  to  thee. 

Then  turn  to  the  light  of  home. 

Sarah  J.  Hale. 

THE  OLD  FOLKS  AT  HOME. 

AY  down  upon  de  Swanee  Ribber, 

Far,  far  away — 
Dare's  wha  my  heart  is  turning  ebber — 

Dare's  wha  de  old  folks  stay. 
All  up  and  down  de  whole  creation. 

Sadly  I  roam  ; 
Still  longing  for  de  old  plantation, 

And  for  de  old  folks  at  home. 

All  de  world  am  sad  and  dreary, 

Eb'rj'where  I  roam ; 
Oh,  darkeys,  how  my  heart  grows  weary. 

Far  from  de  old  folks  at  home. 

All  round  de  little  farm  I  wandered. 

When  I  was  young  ; 
Den  many  happy  days  I  squandered, 

Many  de  song^  I  sung. 
When  I  was  playing  wid  my  brudder, 

Happy  was  I ; 
Oh  !  take  me  to  my  kind  old  mudder ! 

Dare  let  me  live  and  die  ! 

One  little  hut  among  de  bushes — 

One  dat  I  love — 
Still  sadly  to  my  memory  rushes. 

No  matter  where  I  rove. 
When  will  I  see  de  bees  a-humming, 

All  round  de  comb  ? 
When  will  I  hear  de  banjo  tumming 

Down  in  my  good  old  home  ? 

Stephen  Collins  Foster. 


HOMEWARD  BOUND. 

^  RIGHT  flag  at  yonder  tapering  mast. 
Fling  out  your  field  of  azure  blue ; 
Let  star  and  stripe  be  westward  cast, 
And  point  as  Freedom's  eagle  flew  ! 
Strain  home  !  O  lithe  and  quivering  spars  ! 
Point  home  my  country's  flag  of  stars  ' 
My  mother,  in  thy  prayer  to-night 

There  come  new  words  and  warmer  tears  ; 
On  long,  long  darkness  breaks  the  light, 

Comes  home  the  loved,  the  lost  for  years. 
Sleep  safe,  O  wave-worn  mariner  ! 

Fear  not  to-night,  or  storm  or  sea  : 
The  ear  of  Heaven  bends  low  to  her  ! 

He  comes  to  shore  who  sails  with  me. 
The  wind-tossed  spider  needs  no  token 

How  stands  the  tree  when  lightnings  blaze  ; 
And,  by  a  thread  from  heaven  unbroken, 
I  know  my  mother  lives  and  prays. 

Nathaniel  P.  Willis. 


30 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


I  REMEMBER,  I  REMEMBER. 

REMEMBER,  I  remember 

Tlie  house  where  I  was  bom, 
The  little  window  where  the  sun 

Came  peeping  in  at  morn. 
He  never  came  a  wink  too  soon, 

Nor  brought  too  long  a  day ; 
But  now  I  often  wish  the  night 

Had  borne  my  breath  away ! 

I  remember,  I  remember 

The  roses,  red  and  white, 
The  violets,  and  the  lily-cups — 

Those  flowers  made  of  light !     • 
The  lilacs  where  the  robin  built, 

And  where  my  brother  set 
The  laburnum  on  his  birthday — 

The  tree  is  living  yet ! 

I  remember,  I  remember 

Where  I  was  used  to  swing, 
And  thought  the  air  must  rush  as  fresh 

To  swallows  on  the  wing ; 
My  spirit  flew  in  feathers  then, 

That  is  so  heavy  now. 
And  summer  pools  could  hardly  cool 

The  fever  on  my  brow ! 

I  remember,  I  remember 

The  fir-trees  dark  and  high ; 
I  used  to  think  their  slender  tops 

Were  close  against  the  sky. 
It  was  a  childish  ignorance. 

But  now  'tis  little  joy 
To  know  I'm  farther  off  from  heaven 

Than  when  I  was  a  boy. 

Thomas  Hood. 


(A 


THE  PATTER  OF  LITTLE  FEET. 

P  with  the  sun  in  the  morning, 
Away  to  the  garden  he  hies, 
To  see  if  the  sleeping  blossoms 
Have  begun  to  open  their  eyes. 

Running  a  race  with  the  wind, 
With  a  step  as  light  and  fleet. 

Under  my  window  I  hear 
The  patter  of  little  feet. 

Now  to  the  brook  he  wanders. 
In  swift  and  noiseless  flight, 

Splashing  the  sparkling  ripples 
Like  a  fairy  water-sprite. 

No  sand  under  fabled  river 
Has  gleams  like  his  golden  hair, 

No  pearly  sea-shell  is  fairer 
Than  his  slender  ankles  bare. 


From  a  broad  window  my  neighbor, 
Looks  down  on  our  little  cot. 

And  watches  the  "  poor  man's  blessing"- 
I  cannot  envy  his  lot 

He  has  pictures,  books,  and  music, 
Bright  fountains,  and  noble  trees. 

Rare  store  of  blossoming  roses, 
Birds  from  beyond  the  seas. 

But  never  does  childish  laughter 
His  homeward  footsteps  greet ; 

His  stately  halls  ne'er  echo 
To  the  tread  of  innocent  feet. 

This  child  is  our  "  sparkling  picture," 
A  birdling  that  chatters  and  sings, 

Sometimes  a  sleeping  cherub, 
(Our  other  one  has  wings.) 

When  the  glory  of  sunset  opens 

The  highway  by  angles  trod. 
And  seems  to  unbar  the  city 

Whose  builder  and  maker  is  God — 

Close  to  the  crystal  portal, 

I  see  by  the  gates  of  pearl, 
The  eyes  of  our  other  angel — 

A  twin-born  little  girl. 

And  I  ask  to  be  taught  and  directed 
To  guide  his  footsteps  aright ; 

So  to  live  that  I  may  be  ready 
To  walk  in  sandals  of  light — 

And  hear,  amid  songs  of  welcome, 
From  messengers  trusty  and  fleet, 

On  the  starry  floor  of  heaven, 
The  patter  of  little  feet. 


THE  FIRESIDE. 

F  solid  happiness  we  prize. 

Within  our  breast  this  jewel  lies ; 

And  they  are  fools  who  roam  : 
The  world  has  nothing  to  bestow  ; 
From  our  own  selves  our  joys  must  flow. 

And  that  dear  place — our  home. 

Our  portion  is  not  large,  indeed ; 
But  then  how  little  do  we  need  ! 

For  nature's  calls  are  few  : 
In  this  the  art  of  living  lies. 
To  want  no  more  than  may  suffice, 

And  make  that  little  do. 

We'll  therefore  relish  with  content 
Whate'er  kind  Providence  has  sent, 

Nor  aim  beyond  our  power  ; 
For,  if  our  stock  be  very  small, 
*Tis  prudence  to  enjoy  it  all. 

Nor  lose  the  present  hour. 


THE  HOME   CIRCLE. 


31 


To  be  resigned  when  ills  betide, 
Patient  when  favors  are  denied, 

And  pleased  with  favors  given  ; 
Dear  Chloe,  this  is  wisdom's  part ; 
This  is  that  incense  of  the  heart, 

Whose  fragrance  smells  to  heaven. 

Thus,  hand  in  hand,  through  life  we'll  go  ; 
Its  chequered  paths  of  joy  and  wo 

With  cautious  steps  we'll  tread  ; 
Quit  its  vain  scenes  without  a  tear, 
Without  a  trouble  or  a  fear, 

And  mingle  with  the  dead : 

While  conscience,  like  a  faithful  friend, 
Shall  through  the  gloomy  vale  attend. 

And  cheer  our  dying  breath  ; 
Shall,  when  all  other  comforts  cease, 
Like  a  kind  angel,  whisper  peace, 

And  smooth  the  bed  of  death. 

Nathaniel  Cotton. 

THE  HAPPY  MARRIAGE. 

'OW  blest  has  my  time  been  !  what  joys  have  I 
known. 
Since  wedlock's  soft  bondage  made  Jessy  my 
own! 

So  joyful  my  heart  is,  so  easy  my  chain. 
That  freedom  is  tasteless,  and  roving  a  pain. 

Through  walks  grown  with   woodbines,    as  often  we 

stray, 
Around  us  our  boys  and  girls  frolic  and  play : 
How  pleasing  their  sport  is !  the  wanton  ones  see. 
And  borrow  their  looks  from  my  Jessy  and  me. 

To  try  her  sweet  temper,  ofttimes  am  I  seen, 
In  revels  all  day  with  the  nymphs  on  the  green  ; 
Though  painful  my  absence,  my  doubts  she  beguiles, 
And  meets  me  at  night  with  complacence  and  smiles. 

What  though  on  her  cheeks  the  rose  loses  its  hue. 
Her  wit  and  good  humor  bloom  all  the  year  through ; 
Time  still,  as  he  flies,  adds  increase  to  her  truth. 
And  gives  to  her  mind  what  he  steals  from  her  youth. 

Ye  shepherds  so  gay,  who  make  love  to  ensnare. 
And  cheat,  with  false  vows,  the  too  credulous  fair ; 
In  search  of  true  pleasure,  how  vainly  you  roam  ! 
To  hold  it  for  life,  you  must  find  it  at  home. 

Edward  Moore. 

BE   KIND. 


His  footsteps  are  feeble,  once  fearless  and  bold  ; 
Thy  father  is  passmg  away. 

Be  kind  to  thy  mother,  for,  lo  !  on  her  brow 

May  traces  of  sorrow  be  seen  : 
Oh,  well  may'st  you  cherish  and  comfort  her  now. 

For  loving  and  kind  hath  she  been. 
Remember  thy  mother,  for  thee  will  she  pray 

As  long  as  God  giveth  her  breath  ; 
With  accents  of  kindness  then  cheer  her  lone  way, 

E'en  to  the  dark  valley  of  death. 

Be  kind  to  thy  brother,  his  heart  will  have  dearth, 

If  the  smile  of  thy  love  be  withdrawn  ; 
The  flowers  of  feeling  will  fade  at  their  birth, 

If  the  dew  of  afiection  be  gone. 
Be  kind  to  thy  brother,  wherever  you  are, 

The  love  of  a  brother  shall  be 
An  ornament,  purer  and  richer  by  far. 

Than  pearls  from  the  depths  of  the  sea 

Be  kind  to  thy  sister,  not  many  may  know 

The  depth  of  true  sisterly  love  ; 
The  wealth  of  the  ocean  lies  fathoms  below 

The  surface  that  sparkles  above. 
Thy  kindness  shall  bring  to  thee  many  sweet  hours, 

And  blessings  thy  pathway  to  crown. 
Affection  shall  weave  thee  a  garland  of  flowers, 

More  precious  than  wealth  or  renown. 


THE  OLD  FAMILIAR  FACES. 

HAVE  had  playmates,  I  have  had  companions. 
In  my  days  of  childhood,  in  my  joyful  school- 
days ; 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

I  have  been  laughing,  I  have  been  carousing, 
Drinking  late,  sitting  late,  with  my  bosom  cronies  ; 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

I  loved  a  love  once,  fairest  among  women  ; 
Closed  are  her  doors  on  me,  I  must  not  see  her  ; 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

I  have  a  friend,  a  kinder  friend  has  no  man  ; 
Like  an  ingrate  I  left  my  friend  abruptly  ; 
Left  him,  to  muse  on  the  old  familiar  faces. 

Ghostlike  I  paced  round  the  haunts  of  my  childhood ; 
Earth  seem'd  a  desert  I  was  bound  to  traverse. 
Seeking  to  find  the  old  familiar  faces. 


E  kind  to  thy  father,  for  when  thou  wast  young,    Friend  of  my  bosom,  thou  more  than  a  brother. 
Who  loved  thee  as  fondly  as  he ?  '  Why  wert  thou  not  born  in  my  father's  dwelling? 

He  caught  the  first  accents  that  fell  from  thy  '  So  might  we  talk  of  the  old  familiar  faces- 
tongue,  j 
Andjoined  in  thine  innocent  glee.         ,  How  some  they  have  died,  and  some  they  have  left  me, 

'  And  some  are  taken  from  me  ;  all  are  departed  ; 
Be  kind  to  thy  father,  for  now  he  is  old.  All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

His  locks  intermingled  with  gray,  j  Charles  Lamb. 


32 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


THE  WIFE. 

QLL  day,  like  some  sweet  bird,  content  to  sing 
In  its  small  cage,  she  moveth  to  and  fro — 
And  ever  and  anon  will  upward  spring 

To  her  sweet  lips,  fresh  from  the  fount  below, 
The  murmur'd  melody  of  pleasant  thought, 

Unconscious  utter' d,  gentle-toned  and  low. 
Light  household  duties,  evermore  inwrought 

With  placid  fancies  of  one  trusting  heart 
That  lives  but  in  her  smile,  and  turns 

From  life's  cold  seeming  and  the  busy  mart, 
With  tenderness,  that  heavenward  ever  yearns 
To  be  refresh'd  where  one  pure  altar  burns. 
Shut  out  from  hence  the  mockery  of  life, 
Thus  liveth  she  content,  the  meek,  fond,  trusting  wife. 
Elizabeth  Oakes  Smith. 


HOUSEHOLD  TREASURES. 

'OUSEHOLD  treasures,  household  treasures, 

Gems  of  worth,  say,  what  are  they  ? 
Walls  of  jasper,  doors  of  cedar. 

Arras  of  superb  array? 
Caskets  of  the  costliest  jewels. 

Cabinets  of  ancient  store, 
Shrines  where  Art  her  incense  offers, 

Volumes  of  profoundest  lore? 

Household  treasures,  home's  true  jewels. 

Deem  I  better  far  than  those : 
Prattling  children,  blithe  and  ruddy 

As  the  dew-bespangled  rose. 
Tempt  me  not  with  gold  of  Ophir, 

Wreathe  not  gems  to  deck  my  head ; 
Winsome  hearthlings,  home's  fond  angels. 

Are  the  things  I  crave  instead. 

Household  treasures,  household  treasures, 

Gems  of  worth,  say,  what  are  they  ? 
All  that  wealth  or  grandeur  proffer, 

Soon,  alas  !  must  know  decay ; 
But,  'midst  amaranths  unfading, 

With  the  rose-stain'd  cherubim, 
Happy  children,  gone  before  us, 

Swell  the  everlasting  hymn. 

Thomas  Greet. 


A  HOME  IN  THE  HEART. 

H  ?  ask  not  a  home  in  the  mansions  ot  pride. 
Where  marble  shines  out  in  the  pillars 
and  walls ; 
Though  the  roof  be  of  gold,  it  is  brilliantly 
cold, 
And  joy  may  not  be  found  in  its  torch-lighted  halls. 
Cut  seek  for  a  bosom  all  honest  and  true. 
Where  love,  once  awaken'd,  will  never  depart : 


Turn,  turn  to  that  breast  like  the  dove  to  its  nest, 
And  you'll  find  there's  no  home  like  a  home  in  the 
heart. 

Oh  !  link  but  one  spirit  that's  warmly  sincere, 
That  will  heighten  your  pleasure  and  solace  your 
care  ; 
Find  a  soul  you  may  trust  as  the  kind  and  the  just, 
And  be  sure  the  wide  world  holds  no  treasure  so 
rare. 
Then  the  frowns  of  Misfortune  may  shadow  our  lot, 

The  cheek,  searing  tear-drops  of  Sorrow  may  start ; 
But  a  star  never  dim  sheds  a  halo  for  him 
Who  can  turn  for  repose  to  a  home  in  the  heart. 

Eliza  Cook. 


FARMER  GRAY'S  PHOTOGRAPH. 

WANT  you  to  take  a  picter  o'  me  and  my  old 
woman  here. 
Jest  as  we  be,  if  you  please,  sir— wrinkles,  gray 
hairs  and  all ; 

We  never  was  vain  at  our  best,  and  we're  going  on 
eighty  year. 
But  we've  got  some  boys  to  be  proud  of,  straight  an' 
handsome  and  tall  ; 
They  are  coming  home  this  summer,  the  nineteenth 
day  of  July, 
Tom  wrote  me,  (Tom's  a  lawyer  in  Boston  since 
forty-eight) ; 
So  we're  going  to  try  and  surprise  'em,  my  old  wife 
and  I — 
Tom,  Harry,  Zay  and  Elisha,  and  the  two  girls,  Jen- 
nie and  Kate. 
I  guess  you've  beam  of  Elisha— he  preaches  in  Middle- 
town, 
I'm  a  Methody  myself,  but  he's  'Piscopal,  he  says  ; 
Don't  s'pose  it  makes  much  difference,  only  he  wears 
a  gown ; 
An'  I  couldn't  abide  (bein'  old  and  set)  what  /  call 
them  Popish  ways. 
But  he's  good,  for  /  brought  him  up,  and  the  others- 
Harry  'n'  Zay, 
They're  merchants  down  to  the  city,  an'  don't  forget 
mother  'n'  me ; 
They'd  give  us  the  fat  of  the  land  if  we'd  only  come 
that  way. 
And  Jennie  and  Kate  are  hearty  off,  for  they  married 
rich,  you  see. 
Well,  lud,  that's  a  cur'us  fix,  sir.     Do  you  screw  it  into 
the  head  ? 
I've  beam  of  this  photography,  an'  I  reckon  it's  scary 
work. 
Do  you  take  the  picters  by  lightnin'  ?    La,  yes  ;  so  the 
neighbors  said ; 
It's  the  sun  that  does  it,  old  woman ;  'n'  he  never 
was  known  to  shirk. 
Wall,  yes,  I'll  be  readin'  the  Bible  ;  old  woman,  what'll 
you  do  ? 


THE   HOME   CIRCLE. 


33 


Jest  sit  on  the  other  side  o'  me,  'n'  I'll  take  hold  o' 
your  hand. 
That's  the  way  we  courted,  mister,  if  it's  all  the  same 
to  you ; 
And  that's  the  way  we're  a-goin',  please  God,  to  the 
light  o'  the  better  land. 
I  never  could  look  that  thing  in  the  face,  if  my  eyes  was 
as  good  as  gold. 
'Tain't  over  ?    Do  say !    What,  the  work  is  done ! 
Old  woman,  that  beats  the  Dutch. 
Jest  think  1  we've  got  our  picters  took,  and  we  nigh 
eighty  year  old  ; 
There  ain't  many  couples  in  our  town  of  our  age  that 
can  say  as  much. 
You  see  on  the  nineteenth  of  next  July  our  golden  wed- 
ding comes  on — 
For  fifty  year  in  the  sun  and  rain  we've  pulled  at  the 
same  old  cart ; 
We've  never  had  any  trouble  to  speak  of,  only  our  poor 
son  John 
Went  wrong,  an'  I  drove  him  off,  'n'  it  about  broke 
the  old  woman's  heart — 
There's  a  drop  of  bitter  in  every  sweet.     And  my  old 
woman  and  me 
Will  think  of  John  when  the  rest  come  home.   Would 
I  forgive  him,  young  sir? 
He  was  only  a  boy,  and  I  was  a  fool  for  bein'  so  hard, 
you  see ; 
If  I  could  jist  git  him  atween  these  arms,  I'd  stick  to 
him  like  a  Durr. 
And  what's  to  pay  for  the  sunshine  that's  painted  my 
gray  old  phiz  ? 
Nothin'  ?    That's  cur'us !    You  don't  work  for  the 
pleasure  of  working,  hey.-* 
Old  woman,  look  here  !  there's  Tom  in  that  face — I'm 
blest  if  the  chin  isn't  his  ! 
Good  God  !  she  knows  him — it's  our  son  John,  the 
boy  that  we  drove  away  ! 

THE  GRAVES  OF  A  HOUSEHOLD. 

'HEY  grew  in  beauty,  side  by  side, 
They  fill'd  one  home  with  glee ; 
^^     Their  graves  are  sever'd,  far  and  wide, 
f  By  mount,  and  stream,  and  sea. 

The  same  fond  mother  bent  at  night 

O'er  each  fair  sleeping  brow  ; 
She  had  each  folded  flower  in  sight — 

Where  are  those  dreamers  now  ? 

One,  'midst  the  forest  of  the  west, 

By  a  dark  stream  is  laid — 
The  Indian  knows  his  place  of  rest 

Far  in  the  cedar  shade. 

The  sea,  the  blue  lone  sea,  hath  one. 

He  lies  where  pearls  lie  deep  ; 
He  was  the  loved  of  all,  yet  none 

O'er  his  low  bed  may  weep. 
3 


One  sleeps  where  southern  vines  are  dress'd 

Above  the  noble  slain  : 
He  wrapt  his  colors  round  his  breast, 

On  a  blood-red  field  of  Spain. 

And  one — o'er  her  the  myrtle  showers 

Its  leaves,  by  soft  winds  fann'd  ; 
She  faded  'midst  Italian  flowers — 
The  last  of  that  bright  band. 

And  parted  thus  they  rest,  who  play'd- 

Beneath  tiie  same  green  tree  ; 
Whose  voices  mingled  as  they  pray'd 

Around  one  parent  knee  ! 

They  that  with  smiles  lit  up  the  hall. 
And  cheer'd  with  song  the  hearth — , 

Alas  !  for  love,  if  thou  wert  all, 
And  nought  beyond  on  earth  ! 

Felicia  Dorothea  Hemans. 


THE  OLD  ARM-CHAIR. 

LOVE  it,  I  love  it ;  and  who  shall  dare 
To  chide  me  for  lovmg  that  old  arm-chair ; 
I've  treasured  it  long  as  a  sainted  prize  ; 
I've  bedew'd  it  with  tears,  and  embalm'd  it  with 
sighs.  "^ 

'Tis  bound  by  a  thousand  bands  to  my  hearth  ; 
Not  a  tie  will  break,  not  a  link  will  start. 
Would  ye  learn  the  spell  ? — a  mother  sat  there  ; 
And  a  saercd  thing  is  that  old  arm  chair. 

In  childhood's  hour  I  lingered  near 
The  hallow'd  seat  with  listening  ear  ; 
And  gentle  words  that  mother  would  give  ; 
To  fit  me  to  die,  and  teach  me  to  live. 
She  told  me  shame  would  never  betide, 
With  truth  for  my  creed  and  God  for  my  guide  ? 
She  taught  me  to  lisp  my  earliest  prayer  ; 
As  I  knelt  beside  that  old  arm-chair. 

I  sat  and  watch'd  her  many  a  day. 

When  her  eye  grew  dim,  and  her  locks  were  gray  ; 

And  I  almost  worshipp'd  her  when  she  smiled, 

And  turn'd  from  her  Bible,  to  bless  her  child. 

Years  roU'd  on  ;  but  the  last  one  sped — 

My  idol  was  shatter'd  ;  my  earth-star  fled  : 

I  learnt  how  much  the  heart  can  bear. 

When  I  saw  her  die  in  that  old  arm  chair. 

'T  is  past,  't  is  past,  but  I  gaze  on  it  now 

With  quivering  breath  and  throbbing  brow  ; 

'T  was  there  she  nursed  me,  't  was  there  she  died  : 

And  memory  flows  with  lava  tide. 

Say  it  is  folly  ;  and  deem  me  weak, 

While  the  scalding  drops  start  down  my  cheek  ; 

But  I  love  it,  I  love  it ;  and  cannot  tear 

My  soul  from  a  mother's  old  arm-chair. 

Eliz.\  Cook. 


34 


CROWN   JKWKLS. 


THE  STREAM  OF  LIFE. 

STREAM  descending  to  the  sea, 
Thy  mossy  banks  between, 
The  flow'rets  blow  the  grasses  grow 
The  leafy  trees  are  green. 

In  garden  plots  tl>e  children  play, 

The  fields  the  laborers  till, 
The  houses  stand  on  either  hand, 

And  thou  descendest  still, 

O  life  descending  into  death, 

Our  waking  eyes  behold. 
Parent  and  friend  thy  lapse  attend. 

Companions  young  and  old. 

Strong  purposes  our  minds  possess. 

Our  hearts  afTeclions  f;ll. 
We  toil  and  earn,  we  seek  and  learn, 

And  thou  descendest  still. 

O  end  to  which  our  currents  tend, 

Inevitable  sea. 
To  which  we  flow,  what  do  we  know. 

What  shall  we  guess  of  thee  ? 

A  roar  we  hear  upon  thy  shore. 

As  we  our  course  fulfil ; 
Scarce  we  divine  a  sun  shall  shine 

And  be  above  us  still. 

WIFE.  CHILDREN,  AND  FRIENDS. 

'HEN  the  black-lettered  list  to  the  gods  was 
presented, 
(The  list  of  what  Fate  for  each  mortal  in- 
tends), 
At  the  long  string  of  ills  a  kind  goddess  relented, 
And  slipped  in  three  blessings — wife,  children  and 
friends. 

In  vain  surly  Pluto  maintained  he  was  cheated, 
For  justice  divine  could  not  compass  its  ends; 

The  schema  of  man's  penance  he  swore  was  defeated, 
For  earth  becomes  heaven  with — wife,  children  and 
friends. 

If  the  stock  of  our  bliss  is  in  stranger  hands  vested, 
The  fund,  ill  secured,  oft  in  bankruptcy  ends  ; 

But  the  heart  issues  bills  which  are  never  protested. 
When  drawn  on  the  firm   of— wife,  children    and 
friends. 

Though  valor  still  glows  in  his  life's  dying  embers, 
The  death-wounded  tar,  who  his  colors  defends, 

Drops  a  tear  of  regret  as  he  dying  remembers 
How  blessed  was  his  home  with — wife,  children  and 
friends. 

The  soldier,  whose  deeds  live  immortal  in  story, 
Whom  duty  to  far  distant  latitudes  sends, 

With  transport  would  barter  whole  ages  of  glory 
For  one  happy  day  with — wife,  children,  and  friends. 


Though  spice-breathing  gales  on  his  caravan  hover, 
Though  for  hi:n  all  Ara'oia's  fragrance  ascends. 

The  merchant  still  thinlcs  of  the  woodbines  that  cover 
The  bower  where  he  sat  with — wife,  children  and 
friends. 

Tlie  dayspring  of  youtn,  still  unclouded  by  sorrow, 

Alone  on  itself  for  enjoyment  depends  ; 
But  drear  is  the  twilight  of  age,  if  it  borrow 

No  warmth  from  the  smile  of — wife,  children    and  , 
friends. 

Let  the  breath  of  renown  ever  freshen  and  nourish 
The  laurel  which  o'er  the  dead  favorite  bends ; 

O'er  me  wave  the  willow,  and  long  may  it  flourish, 
Bedewed  w'ith  the  tears  of— wife,  children  and  friends. 

Let  us  drink,  for  my  song,  growing  graver  and  graver. 
To  subjects  too  solemn  insensibly  tends  ; 

Let  us  drink,  pledge  me  high,  love  and  virtue  shall  flavor 
The  glass  which  I  fill  to — wife,  children  and  friends. 
William  Robert  Spencer. 


HOME  VOICES. 

AM  so  home-sick  in  this  summer  weather ! 
Where  is  my  home  upon  this  weary  earth  ? 
The  maple  trees  are  bursting  into  freshness 
Around  the  pleasant  place  that  gave  me  birth. 

But  dearer  far,  a  grave  for  me  is  waiting. 
Far  up  among  the  pine  trees'  greener  shade  ; 

The  willow  boughs  the  hand  of  love  has  planted, 
Wave  o'er  the  hillock  where  my  dead  are  laid. 

Why  go  without  me — oh,  ye  loved  and  loving? 

What  has  earth  left  of  happiness  or  peace  ? 
Let  me  come  to  you,  where  the  heart  grows  calmer ; 

Let  me  lie  down  where  life's  wild  strugglings  cease. 

Earth  has  no  home  for  hearts  so  worn  and  weary; 

Life  has  no  second  spring  for  such  a  year  ; 
Oh !  for  the  day  that  bids  me  come  to  meet  you ! 

And,  life  in  gladness,  in  that  summer  hear  ! 


HOME  OF  THE  WORKINGMAN. 

ESOLVE— and  tell  your  wife  of  your  good  reso 
lution.  She  will  aid  it  all  she  can.  Her  step 
will  be  lighter  and  her  hand  will  be  busier  all 
day,  expecting  the  comfortable  evening  at 
home  when  you  return.  Household  affairs  will  have 
been  well  attended  to.  A  place  for  everything,  and 
everything  in  i  ts  place,  will,  like  some  good  genius, have 
made  even  an  humble  home  the  scene  of  neatness^, 
arrangement  and  taste.  The  table  will  be  ready  at . 
the  fireside.  The  loaf  will  be  one  of  that  order  which 
says,  by  its  appearance.  You  may  cut  and  come  again. 
The  cups  and  saucers  will  be  waiting  for  supplies. 
The  kettle  will  be  singing ;  and  the  children,  happy 
with  fresh  air  and  exercise,  will  be  smiling  in  their 
glad  anticipation  of  that  evening  meal  wlien  father  is 
at  home,  and  of  the  pleasant  reading  afterwards. 


THE   IIOMK   CIRCI.K 


35 


MY  LITTLE  WIFE. 

UR  table  is  spread  for  two»  to-night — 
No  guests  our  bounty  share  ; 
The  damask  cloth  is  snowy  white, 
The  services  elegant  and  bright, 
Our  china  quaint  and  rare  ; 
My  little  wife  presides, 
And  perfect  love  abides. 

The  bread  is  sponge,  the  butter  gold, 

The  muffins  nice  and  hot. 
What  though  the  winds  without  blow  cold  ? 
The  walls  a  little  world  infold, 
And  the  storm  is  soon  forgot  ; 
In  the  fire-light's  cheerful  glow, 
Beams  a  paradise  below. 

A  fairer  picture  who  has  seen  ? 

Soft  lights  and  shadows  blend  ; 
The  central  figure  of  the  scene, 
She  sits,  my  wife,  my  queen — 
Her  head  a  little  bent ; 
And  in  her  eyes  of  blue 
I  read  my  bliss  anew. 

I  watch  her  as  she  pours  the  tea, 

With  quiet,  gentle  grace  ; 
With  fingers  deft,  and  movements  free, 
She  mixes  in  the  cream  for  me, 
A  bright  smile  on  her  face  ; 
And,  as  she  sends  it  up, 
I  pledge  her  in  my  cup. 

Was  ever  man  before  so  blest  ? 

I  secretly  reflect. 
The  passing  thou2;ht  she  must  have  guessed, 
For  now  dear  lips  on  mine  are  pressed, 
An  arm  is  round  my  neck. 
Dear  treasure  of  my  life — 
God  bless  her — little  wife. 


GOOD  BYE,  OLD  HOUSE. 

OOD  bye,  old  house  !  the  hurry  and  the  bustle 
Smothered  till  now  all  thought  of  leaving 

you; 
But  the  last  load  has  gone,  and  I've  a  mo- 
ment. 
All  by  myself,  to  say  a  last  adieu. 

Good  bye,  old  house  !  I  shall  not  soon  forget  you, 
The  witness  of  so  much  eventful  time — 

And  walls  have  ears  they  say,  I  beg  you  cherish 
Each  secret  that  you  may  have  heard  of  mine. 

Strange  faces  will  come  in  and  gaze  upon  you, 
Irreverent  and  careless  of  each  spot 


That  held  in  sacred  keeping  household  treasures, 
Ah,  well,  you  need  not  mind — it  matters  not. 

They'll  wonder  why  that  nail  was  driven  yonder 
In  reach  of  Freddy's  hand,  at  Christmas  time, 

That  he  might  hang,  himself,  his  little  stocking. 
That  notch  marked  Willie's  height  when  he  was 
nine. 

These  marks  that  I  have  not  the  heart  to  trouble, 
Johnny  put  there  before  he  went  away. 

Wishing,   meanwhile,  that    he  might  make  them 
double ; 
They  meant  the  days  he  had  at  home  to  stay 

Dear  child  !  it  was  that  corner  held  his  coffin 
When  trouble,  toil  and  pain  for  him  were  done  ; 

And  in  that  corner,  too,  I  have  knelt  daily, 
Striving  to  find  the  way  that  he  has  won. 

'Twas  in  that  corner  Margaret  was  married. 
And  that  white  spot  upon  the  smoky  wall 
Is  where  her  picture  hung, — those  three  nails  yon- 
der 
Were  driven  to  hold  her  sack,  and  scarf,  and 
shawl. 

And  so,  old  house,  you  have  for  every  blemish 
A  strange,  peculiar  story  of  your  own  ; 

As  our  poor  bodies  do  when  we  have  left  them, 
And  powerless  alike  to  make  it  known. 

Good  bye,  good  bye,  old  house  !  the  night  is  fall- 
ing, 
They'll  think   I've  wandered  from,  the  path,    I 
guess. 
One  more  walk  through  the  rooms,  ah !  how  the)' 
echo ! 
How  strange  and  lonely  is  their  emptiness  ! 

Millie  C.  Pomeroy. 


A  MOTHER'S  INFLUENCE. 

HEN  barren  doubt  like  a  late-coming  snow 
Made  an  unkind  December  of  my  spring, 
That  all  the  pretty  flowers  did  droop  for 
woe, 

And  the  sweet  birds  their  love  no  more  would  sing ; 
Then  the  remembrance  of  thy  gentle  faith. 
Mother  beloved,  would  steal  upon  my  heart ; 
Fond  feeling  saved  me  from  that  utter  scathe. 
And  from  thy  hope  I  could  not  live  apart. 

Now  that  my  mind  hath  passed  from  wintry  gloom, 
And  on  the  calmed  waters  once  again 
Ascendant  faith  circles  with  silver  plume. 
That  casts  a  charmed  shade,  not  now  in  pain, 
Thou  child  of  Christ,  in  joy  I  think  of  thee, 
And  mingle  prayers  for  what  we  both  may  be. 

Arthur  Henry  Hallam. 


36 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


THE  WIFE  TO  HER  HUSBAND. 
^T^  INGER  not  long.     Home  is  not  home  without 

^^         Its  dearest  tokens  do  but  make  me  mourn. 
O,  let  its  memory,  like  a  chain  about  tliee, 
Gently  comf>el  and  hasten  thy  return  ! 

Linger  not  long.   Though  crowds  should  woo  thy  stay- 
ing, 

Bethink  thee,  can  the  mirth  of  friends,  though  dear. 
Compensate  for  the  grief  thy  long  delaying 

Costs  the  fond  heart  that  sighs  to  have  thee  here  ? 

Linger  not  long.     How  shall  I  watch  thy  coming. 
As  evening  shadows  stretch  o'er  moor  and  dell , 

When  the  wild  bee  hath  ceased  her  busy  humming, 
And  silence  hangs  on  all  things  like  a  spell ! 

How  shall  I  watch  for  thee,  when  fears  grow  stronger, 
As  night  grows  dark  and  darker  on  the  hill ! 

How  shall  I  weep,  when  I  can  watch  no  longer! 
Ah !  art  thou  absent,  art  thou  absent  still  ? 

Yet  I  should  grieve  not,  though  the  eye  that  seeth  me 
Gazeth  through  tears  that  make  its  splendor  dull ; 

For  O,  I  sometimes  fear  when  thou  art  wit*h  me 
My  cup  of  happiness  is  all  too  full. 

Haste,  haste  thee  home  unto  thy  mountain  dwelling. 

Haste,  as  a  bird  unto  its  peaceful  nest ! 
Haste,  as  a  skiff,  through  tempests  wide  and  swelling, 

Flies  to  its  haven  of  securest  rest ! 


THANKSGIVING  DAY. 

'HE  white  moon  peeps  thro'  my  window-blind 
As  I'm  sitting  alone  to-night, 
Thinking  of  days  I've  left  behind 
"f"  In  the  years  that  have  taken  flight. 

My  heart  is  full  of  a  nameless  thrill 
That  my  life  has  been  so  sweet, 
And  I  fain  would  hurry  to  Zion's  hill 
And  bow  at  the  Giver's  feet. 

The  year  just  going  has  brought  me  boon 

As  rich  as  the  years  gone  by  ; 
The  skies  were  clear  as  the  harvest  moon 

When  the  golden  crops  were  dry  ; 


The  grain  was  garnered  abundantly  then, 

For  the  wintry  days  ahead. 
And  I  tliank  the  Giver  of  good  to  men 

For  supplies  of  daily  bread. 

No  fell  disease  with  ghastly  shrouds 

Has  come  in  grim  disguise  ; 
No  war  has  spread  its  baleful  clouds 

Athwart  my  azure  skies ; 
But  the  dove  of  peace — the  white- winged  dove — 

Has  built  in  my  own  roof-tree. 
And  the  breezes  have  floated  the  banner  of  love 

O'er  all  my  land  and  sea. 

So  now  I  sing  as  best  I  can 

My  glad  Thanksgiving  song, 
To  Him  who  holds  me  by  the  hand, 

And  leads  me  safe  along  ; 
I  am  not  worthy  his  smallest  gift, 

But  He  giveth  large  and  free, 
And  so  a  song  of  praise  I  lift 

For  His  goodness  unto  me. 

Thomas  Berry  Smith. 


THE  THREE  DEAREST  WORDS. 

'HERE  are  three  words  that  sweetly  blend, 
That  on  the  heart  are  graven  ; 
A  precious,  soothing  balm  they  lend — 
Y  They're  mother,  home  and  heaven  ! 

They  twine  a  wreath  of  beauteous  flowers, 
Which,  placed  on  memory's  urn. 

Will  e'en  the  longest,  gloomiest  hours  # 
To  golden  sunlight  turn  ! 

They  form  a  chain  whose  every  link 

Is  free  from  base  alloy  ; 
A  stream  where  whosoever  drinks 

Will  find  refreshing  joy  ! 

They  build  an  altar  where  each  day 

Love's  offering  is  renewed  ; 
And  peace  illumes  with  genial  ray 

Life's  darkened  solitude  ! 

If  from  our  side  the  first  has  fled. 

And  home  be  but  a  name. 
Let's  strive  the  narrow  path  to  tread, 

That  we  the  last  may  gain  ! 

Mary   J.  Mucklk. 


NSRRilTlYES  AND  BULMDS. 


VISION  OF  BELSHAZZAR. 


HE  king  was  on  his  throne, 
The  satraps  thronged  the  hall ; 
A  thousand  bright  lamps 
shone 
O'er  that  high  festival. 
A  thousand  cups  of  gold, 
In  Judah  deemed  divine, 
Jehovah's  vessels  hold 

The  godless  heathen's  wine  ! 

In  that  same  hour  and  hall, 

The  fingers  of  a  hand 
Came  forth  against  the  wall. 
And  wrote  as  if  on  sand  : 
The  fingers  of  a  man  ; — 
A  solitary  hand 
Along  the  letters  ran, 
And  traced  them  like  a  wand. 

The  monarch  saw,  and  shook, 

And  bade  no  more  rejoice  ; 
AH  bloodless  waxed  his  look, 

And  tremulous  his  voice. 
"  Let  the  men  of  lore  appear, 

The  wisest  of  the  earth, 
And  expound  the  words  of  fear, 

Which  mar  our  royal  mirth." 

Chaldsea's  seers  are  good, 

But  here  they  have  no  skill ; 
And  the  unknown  letters  stood, 

Untold  and  awful  still. 
And  Babel's  men  of  age 

Are  wise  and  deep  in  lore  ; 
But  now  they  were  not  sage. 

They  saw, — but  knew  no  more. 

A  captive  in  the  land, 

A  stranger  and  a  youth, — 
He  heard  the  king's  command, 

He  saw  that  writing's  truth. 
The  lamps  around  were  bright, 

The  prophecy  in  view : 
He  read  it  on  that  night, — 

The  morrow  proved  it  true. 

"  Belshazzar's  grave  is  made, 
His  kingdom  passed  away, 
He  in  the  balance  weighed, 

Is  light  and  worthless  clay. 
The  shroud,  his  robe  of  state  ; 

His  canopy,  the  stone  ; 
The  Mede  is  at  his  gate  ! 
The  Persian  on  his  throne  ! " 

Lord  Byron. 


U 


THE  VH_UGE  BLACKSMITH. 

NDER  a  spreading  chestnut-tree 

The  village  smithy  stands  ; 
The  smith,  a  mighty  man  is  he. 

With  large  and  sinewy  hands  ; 
And  the  muscles  of  his  brawny  arms 

Are  strong  as  iron  bands. 

His  hair  is  crisp  and  black  and  long  ; 

His  face  is  like  the  tan ; 
His  brow  is  wet  with  honest  sweat, — 

He  earns  whate'er  he  can,  ^ 
And  looks  the  whole  world  in  the  face. 

For  he  owes  not  any  man. 

Week  in,  week  out,  from  morn  till  night. 
You  can  hear  his  bellows  blow ; 

You  can  hear  him  swing  his  heavy  sledge, 
With  measured  beat  and  slow, 

Like  a  sexton  ringing  the  village  bell. 
When  the  evening  sun  is  low. 

And  children  coming  home  from  school, 

Look  in  at  the  open  door  ; 
Tiiey  love  to  see  the  flaming  forge, 

And  hear  the  bellows  roar. 
And  catch  the  burning  sparks  that  t\y 

Like  chaff  from  the  threshing  floor. 

He  goes  on  Sunday  to  the  church, 

And  sits  among  his  boys  ; 
He  hears  the  parson  pray  and  preach  ; 

He  hears  his  daughter's  voice, 
Singing  in  the  village  choir. 

And  it  makes  his  heart  rejoice. 

It  sounds  to  him  like  her  mother's  voice, 

Singing  in  Paradise ! 
He  needs  must  think  of  her  once  more, 

How  in  the  grave  she  lies ; 
And  with  his  hard  rough  hand  he  wipes 

A  tear  out  of  his  eyes. 

Toiling,  rejoicing,  sorrowing. 
Onward  through  life  he  goes ; 

Each  morning  sees  some  task  begin, 
Each  evening  sees  it  close  ; 

Something  attempted,  something  done. 
Has  earned  a  night's  repose. 

Thanks,  thanks  to  thee,  my  worthy  friend. 
For  the  lesson  thou  hast  taught ! 

Thus  at  the  flaming  forge  of  life 
Our  fortunes  must  be  wrought ; 

Thus  on  its  sounding  anvil  shaped 
Each  burning  deed  and  thought ! 

He.vry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


(37) 


38 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


YOUNG  LOCHINVAR. 

YOUNG  Lochinvar  is  come  out  of  the  West, 
Through  all  tlie  wide  Border  his  steed  was 

the  best  ; 
And  save  his  good  broadsword  he  weapon 
had  none, 
He  rode  all  unarmed,  and  he  rode  all  alone. 
So  faithful  in  love,  and  so  dauntless  in  war. 
There  never  was  knight  like  the  young  Lochinvar ! 

He  stayed  not  for  brake,  and  he  stopped  not  for  stone, 

He  swam  the  Esk  River  where  ford  there  was  none  ; 

But  ere  he  alighted  at  Netherby  gate. 

The  bride  had  consented,  the  gallant  came  late  : 

For  a  laggard  in  love,  and  a  dastard  in  war, 

Wais  to  wed  the  fair  Ellen  of  brave  Lochinvar. 

So  boldly  he  entered  the  Netherby  Hall, 
'Mong  bridesmen,  and  kinsmen,  and  brothers,  and  all ! 
Then  spoke  the  bride's  father,  his  hand  on  his  sword, — 
For  the  poor  craven  bridegroom  said  never  a  word, — 
"  O,  come  ye  in  peace  here,  or  come  ye  in  war. 
Or  to  dance  at  our  bridal,  young  Lord  Lochinvar?" 
"  I  long  wooed  your  daughter,  my  suit  you  denied  : 
Love  swells  like  the  Solway,  but  ebbs  like  its  tide  ! 
And  now  am  I  come,  with  this  lost  love  of  mine, 
To  lead  but  one  measure,  drink  one  cup  of  wine  1 
There  be  maidens  in  Scotland  more  lovely  by  far, 
That  would  gladly  be  bride  to  the  young  Lochinvar  !  " 

The  bride  kissed  the  goblet ;  the  knight  took  it  up, 
He  quaffed  off  the  wine,  and  he  tlirew  down  the  cup  ! 
She  looked  down  to  blush,  and  she  looked  up  to  sigh, 
With  a  smile  on  her  lips  and  a  tear  in  her  eye. 
He  took  her  soft  hand,  ere  her  mother  could  bar, — 
"  Now  tredd  we  a  measure  !  "  said  young  Lochinvar. 

So  stately  his  form,  and  so  lovely  her  face, 
That  never  a  hall  such  a  galliard  did  grace ! 
While  her  mother  did  fret,  and  her  father  did  fume, 
And  the  bridegroom  stood  dangling  his  bonnet  and 

plume, 
And  the  bride-maidens  whispered,  "  'T  were  better  by 

far 
To  have  matched  our  fair  cousin  with  young  Lochin- 
var!" 

One  touch  to  her  hand,  and  one  word  in  her  ear. 
When  they  reached  the  hall  door,  and  the  charger  stood 

near, 
So  light  to  the  croupe  the  fair  lady  he  swung. 
So  light  to  the  saddle  before  her  he  sprung. 
"  She  is  won  !  we  are  gone,  over  bank,  bush,  and  scaur  ; 
They'll  have  fleet  steeds  that  follow ! "  quoth  young 

Lochinvar. 

There  was  mounting  'mong  Graemes  of  the  Netherby 

clan ; 
Fosters,  Fenwicks,  and  Musgraves,  they  rode  and  they 

ran ; 
There  was  racing  and  chasing  on  Cannobie  Lea, 


But  the  lost  bride  of  Netherby  ne'er  did  they  see ! 
So  daring  in  love,  and  so  dauntless  in  war, 
Have  ye  e'er  heard  of  gallant  like  young  Lochinvar? 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 


THE  LIGHT  OF  OTHER  DAYS. 

FT  in  the  stilly  night. 

Ere  Slumber's  chain  has  bound  me, 
Fond  Memory  brings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  me ; 
The  smiles,  the  tears, 
Of  boyhood's  years, 
The  words  of  love  then  spoken  ; 
The  eyes  that  shone, 
Now  dimmed  and  gone. 
The  cheerful  hearts  now  broken  ! 
Thus  in  the  stilly  night, 

Ere  Slumber's  chain  has  bound  me, 
Sad  Memory  brings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  me. 

When  I  remember  all 

The  friends,  so  linked  together, 
I've  seen  around  me  fall, 
Like  leaves  in  wintry  weather, 
I  feel  like  one 
Who  treads  alone 
Some  banquet  hall  deserted, 
Whose  lights  are  fled. 
Whose  garlands  dead. 
And  all  but  he  departed ! 
Thus  in  the  stilly  night, 

Ere  Slumber's  chain  has  bound  me. 
Sad  Memory  brings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  me. 

Thomas  Moork. 

AULD  LANG  SYNE 


HOULD  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot. 
And  never  brought  to  min'  ? 
Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot. 
And  days  o'  lang  syne  ? 
For  auld  lang  syne,  my  dear. 

For  auld  lang  syne, 
We'll  tak  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet, 
For  auld  lang  syne  ! 

We  twa  hae  run  about  the  braes. 

And  pu't  the  gowans  fine  ; 
But  we've  wandered  mony  a  weary  foot. 
Sin'  auld  lang  syne, 
For  auld  lang  syne,  my  dear, 

For  auld  lang  syne, 
We'll  tak  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet. 
For  auld  lang  syne  ! 

We  twa  hae  paidl't  i'  the  bum, 

Frae  mornin'  sun  till  dine  ; 
But  seas  between  us  braid  hae  roared, 

Sin'  auld  lang  syne. 


NARRATIVES  AND   BALLADS. 


39 


For  auld  langf  syne,  my  dear, 

For  auld  lang  syne, 
We'll  tak  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet, 

For  auld  lang  syne  ! 

And  here's  a  hand,  my  trusty  fiere, 

And  gie's  a  hand  o'  thine  , 
And  we'll  tak  a  right  guid  wiliie-waught, 
For  auld  lang  syne. 
For  auld  lang  syne,  my  dear, 

For  auld  lang  syne, 
We'll  tak  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet, 
For  auld  lang  syne  ! 

And  surely  ye'll  be  your  pint-stoup, 

As  sure  as  I'll  be  mine  ; 
And  we'll  tak  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet, 
For  auld  lang  syne, 
For  auld  lang  syne,  my  dear, 

For  auld  lang  syne. 
We'll  tak  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet, 
For  auld  lang  syne  ! 

Robert  Burns. 


m 


THE  NANTUCKET  SKIPPER. 

ANY  a  long,  long  year  ago, 

Nantucket  skippers  had  a  plan 
Of  finding  out,  though  "lying  low," 

How  near  New  York  their  schooners  ran. 


They  greased  the  lead  before  it  fell. 
And  then  by  sounding,  through  the  night, 

Knowing  the  soil  that  stuck  so  well, 
They  always  guessed  their  reckoning  right. 

A  skipper  gray,  whose  eyes  were  dim, 
Could  tell,  by  tasting,  just  the  spot, 

And  so  below  he'd  "douse  the  glim," — 
After  of  course,  his  "something  hot." 

Snug  in  his  berth,  at  eight  o'clock, 
This  ancient  skipper  might  be  found  ; 

No  matter  how  his  craft  would  rock. 
He  slept, — for  skippers'  naps  are  sound. 

The  watch  on  deck  would  now  and  then 
Run  down  and  wake  him,  with  the  lead; 

He'd  up,  and  taste,  and  tell  the  men 
How  many  miles  they  went  ahead. 

One  night  'twas  Jotham  Marden's  watch. 

A  curious  wag, — the  pedlar's  son  ; 
And  so  he  mused,  (the  wanton  wretch  !) 

"To-night  I'll  have  a  grain  of 

*  We're  all  a  set  of  stupid  fools, 

To  think  the  skipper  knows,  by  tasting, 

What  ground  he's  on  ;  Nantucket  schools 
Don't  teach  such  stuff,  with  all  their  basting  ! 

And  so  he  took  the  well-greased  lead. 
And  rubbed  it  o'er  a  box  of  earth 


That  stood  on  deck, — a  parsnip  bed, 
And  then  he  sought  the  skipper's  berth. 

"  Where  are  we  now,  sir?    Please  to  taste  " 
The  skipper  yawned,  put  out  his  tongue. 
And  opened  his  eyes  in  wondrous  haste. 
And  then  upon  the  floor  he  sprung  ! 

The  skipper  stormed,  and  tore  his  hair, 
Thrust  on  his  boots,  and  roared  to  Marden, 
"  Nantucket's  sunk,  and  here  we  are 

Right  over  old  Marm  Hackett's  garden  !" 

James  Thomas  Fields. 

ON  THE  FUNERAL  OF  CHARLES  L 

AT  NIGHT   IN   ST.    GEORGE'S   CHAPEL,  WINDSOR. 

'HE  castle  clock  had  toll'd  midnight, 
With  mattock  and  with  spade — 
And  silent,  by  the  torches'  light — 
"f  His  corpse  in  earth  we  laid. 

The  coffin  bore  his  name  ;  that  thase 

Of  other  years  might  know. 
When  earth  its  secret  should  disclose, 

Whose  bones  were  laid  below. 

"  Peace  to  the  dead ! "  no  children  sung, 
Slow  pacing  up  the  nave  ; 
No  prayers  were  read,  no  knell  was  rung. 
As  deep  we  dug  his  grave. 

We  only  heard  the  winter's  wind, 

In  many  a  sullen  gust, 
As  o'er  the  open  grave  inclined, 

We  murmured,  "  Dust  to  dust !  " 

A  moonbeam  from  the  arch's  height, 
Stream'd,  as  we  placed  the  stone, 

The  long  aisles  started  into  light 
And  all  the  windows  shone. 

We  thought  we  saw  the  banners  than 

That  shook  along  the  walls, 
Whilst  the  sad  shades  of  mailed  men 

Were  gazing  on  the  stalls. 

'T  is  gone  ! — Again  on  tombs  defaced 

Sits  darkness  more  profound  ; 
And  only  by  the  torch  we  traced 

The  shadows  on  the  ground. 

And  now  the  chilling,  freezing  air 

Without  blew  long  and  loud  ; 
Upon  our  knees  we  breathed  one  prayer. 

Where  he  slept  in  his  shroud. 

We  laid  the  broken  marble  floor, — 

No  name,  no  trace  appears  1 
And  when  we  closed  the  sounding  door. 

We  thought  of  him  with  tears. 

William  Lisle  Bowles. 


40 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


THE  PAINTER  WHO  PLEASED  NOBODY  AND 
EVERYBODY. 


I  EST  men  suspect  your  tale  untrue, 
Keep  probability  in  view. 
The  traveler,  leaping  o'er  those  bounds, 
The  credit  of  his  book  confounds. 
Who  with  his  tongue  hath  armies  routed 
Makes  even  his  real  courage  doubted  : 
But  flattery  never  seems  absurd  ; 
The  flattered  always  takes  your  word  : 
Impossibilities  seem  just ; 
They  take  the  strongest  praise  on  trust. 
Hyperboles,  though  ne'er  so  great, 
Will  still  come  short  of  self-conceit. 

So  very  like  a  painter  drew, 
That  every  eye  the  picture  knew ; 
He  hit  complexion,  feature,  air, 
So  just,  the  life  itself  was  there. 
No  flattery  witli  his  colors  laid, 
To  bloom  restored  the  faded  maid  ; 
He  gave  each  muscle  all  its  strength. 
The  mouth,  the  chin,  the  nose's  length. 
His  honest  pencil  touched  with  truth, 
And  marked  the  date  of  age  and  youth. 
He  lost  his  friends,  his  practice  failed  ; 
Truth  should  not  always  be  revealed ; 
In  dusty  piles  his  pictures  lay. 
For  no  one  sent  the  second  pay. 
Two  bustos,  fraught  with  eyery  grace, 
A  Venus'  and  Apollo's  face. 
He  placed  in  view  ;  resolved  to  please, 
Whoever  sat,  he  drew  from  these, 
From  these  corrected  every  feature. 
And  spirited  each  awkward  creature. 

All  things  were  set ;  the  hour  was  come, 
His  pallet  ready  o'er  his  thumb. 
My  lord  appeared  ;  and  seated  right 
In  proper  attitude  and  light, 
The  painter  looked,  he  sketched  the  piece. 
Then  dipped  his  pencil,  talked  of  Greece, 
Of  Titian's  tints,  of  Guido's  air ; 
"Those  eyes,  my  lord,  the  spirit  there 
Might  well  a  Raphael's  hand  require, 
To  give  them  all  their  native  fire  ; 
The  features  fraught  with  sense  and  wit. 
You'll  grant  are  very  hard  to  hit ; 
But  yet  with  patience  you  shall  view 
As  much  as  paint  and  art  can  do. 
Observe  the  work."     My  lord  replied  : 
"  Till  now  I  thought  my  mouth  was  wide  ; 
Besides,  my  nose  is  somewhat  long ; 
Dear  sir,  for  me,  't  is  far  too  young." 
"Oh  I  pardon  me,"  the  artist  cried, 
"  In  this  the  painters  must  decide. 
The  piece  even  common  eyes  must  strike, 
I  warrant  it  extremely  like." 


My  lord  examined  it  anew  ; 
No  looking-glass  seemed  half  so  true. 

A  lady  came  ;  with  borrowed  grace 
He  from  his  Venus  formed  her  face. 
Her  lover  praised  the  painter's  art ; 
So  like  the  picture  in  his  heart ! 
To  every  age  some  charm  he  lent ; 
Even  beauties  were  almost  content. 
Through  all  the  town  his  art  they  praised  ; 
His  custom  grew,  his  price  was  raised. 
Had  he  the  real  likeness  shown, 
Would  any  man  the  picture  own  ? 
But  when  thus  happily  he  wrought, 
Each  found  the  likeness  in  his  thought. 

John  Gay. 

LITTLE  NELL'S  FUNERAL 

•ND  now  the  bell— the  bell 

She  had  so  often  heard  by  night  and  day. 
And  listened  to  with  solemn  pleasure, 
E'en  as  a  living  voice — 
Rung  its  remorseless  toll  for  her. 
So  young,  so  beautiful,  so  good. 

Decrepit  age,  and  vigorous  life, 
And  blooming  youth,  and  helpless  infancy. 

Poured  forth — on  crutches,  in  the  pride  of  strength 

And  health,  in  the  full  blush 

Of  promise,  the  mere  dawn  of  life- 
To  gather  round  her  tomb.     Old  men  were  there, 

Whose  eyes  were  dim 

And  senses  failing — 
Grandames,  who  might  have  died  ten  years  ago, 
And  still  been  old^the  deaf,   the  blind,  the  lame. 

The  palsied, 
The  living  dead  in  many  shapes  and  forms, 
To  see  the  closing  of  this  early  grave. 

What  was  the  death  it  would  shut  in, 
To  that  which  still  could  crawl  and  keep  above  it  I 

Along  the  crowded  path  they  bore  her  now ; 

Pure  as  the  new  fallen  snow 
That  covered  it ;  whose  day  on  earth 

Had  been  as  fleeting. 
Under  that  porch,  where  she  had  sat  when  Heaven 
In  mercy  brought  her  to  that  peaceful  spot, 
She  passed  again,  and  the  old  church 
Received  her  in  its  quiet  shade. 

They  carried  her  to  one  old  nook, 
Where  she  had  many  and  many  a  time  sat  musing, 
And  laid  their  burden  softly  on  the  pavement. 
The  light  streamed  on  it  through 
The  colored  window — a  window  where  the  boughs 
Of  trees  were  ever  rustling 
In  the  summer,  and  where  the  birds 
Sang  sweetly  all  day  long. 

Charles  Dickens. 


T  E^l  IK®'    THE    i  Y  E 


NARRATIVES   AND    BALLADS. 


41 


COMIN'  THROUGH  THE  RYE. 

,  IN  a  body  meet  a  body 

Comin'  through  the  rye, 
Gin  a  body  kiss  a  body, 

Need  a  body  cry  ? 
Every  lassie  has  her  laddie — 

Ne'er  a  ane  hae  I ; 
Yet  a'  the  lads  they  smile  at  me 

When  comin'  through  the  rye. 

Amang  the  train  there  is  a  swain 

I  dearly  lo'e  niysel'  ; 
But  whaur  his  hame,  or  what  his  name, 

I  dinna  care  to  tell. 

Gin  a  body  meet  a  body 

Comin'  frae  the  town, 
Gin  a  body  greet  a  body, 

Need  a  body  frown  ? 
Every  lassie  has  her  laddie — 

Ne'er  a  ane  hae  I ; 
Yet  a'  the  lads  they  smile  at  me 

When  comin'  through  the  rye. 


llJ 


THE  VAGABONDS. 

'E  are  two  travelers,  Roger  and  I. 

Roger 's  my  dog : — come  here,  you  scamp  ! 
Jump  for  the  gentlemen — mind  jour  eye  ! 
Over  the  table — look  out  for  the  lamp  ! — 
The  rogue  is  growing  a  little  old  ; 

Five  years  we've  tramped  through  wind  and  weather, 
And  slept  out-doors  when  nights  were  cold, 
And  ate  and  drank — and  starved  together. 

We've  learned  what  comfort  is,  I  tell  you  ! 

A  bed  on  the  floor,  a  bit  of  rosin, 
A  fire  to  thaw  our  thumbs  (poor  fellow  ! 

The  paw  he  holds  up  there's  been  frozen,) 
Plenty  of  catgut  for  my  fiddle, 

(This  out-door  business  is  bad  for  strings,) 
Then  a  few  nice  buckwheats  hot  from  the  griddle. 

And  Roger  and  I  set  up  for  kings  ! 

No,  thank  ye,  sir — I  never  drink  ; 

Roger  and  I  are  exceedingly  moral — 
Aren't  we,  Roger? — see  him  wink  ! — 

Well,  something  hot,  then — we  won't  quarrel. 
He's  thirsty,  too — see  him  nod  his  head  ? 

What  a  pity,  sir,  that  dogs  can't  talk  ! 
He  understands  every  word  that's  said — 

And  he  knows  good  milk  from  water-and-chalk. 

The  truth  is,  sir,  naw  I  reflect, 

I've  been  so  sadly  given  to  grog, 
I  wonder  I've  not  lost  the  respect 

(Here's  to  you,  sir,  !)  even  of  my  dog. 
But  he  sticks  by,  through  thick  and  thin  ; 

And  this  old  coat,  with  its  empty  pockets, 


And  rags  that  smell  of  tobacco  and  gin. 
He'll  follow  while  he  has  eyes  in  his  sockets. 

There  isn't  another  creature  living 

Would  do  it,  and  prove,  through  every  disaster, 
So  fond,  so  faithful,  and  so  forgiving. 

To  such  a  miserable,  thankless  master ! 
No,  sir  ! — see  him  wag  his  tail  and  grin  ! 

By  George  !  it  makes  my  old  eyes  water ! 
That  is,  there's  something  in  this  gir> 

That  chokes  a  fellow.     But  no  matter ! 

We'll  have  some  music,  if  you're  willing, 

And  Roger  (hem  !  what  a  plague  a  cough  is,  sir  !j 
Shall  march  a  little — Start,  you  villain  ! 

Stand  straight !  'Bout  face  !  Salute  your  officer  ! 
Put  up  that  paw  !  Dress  !  Take  your  rifle  ! 

(Some  dogs  have  arms,  yQU  see  !)  Now  hold  your 
Cap  while  the  gentlemen  give  a  trifle. 

To  aid  a  poor  old  patriot  soldier  ! 

March  !  Halt !  Now  show  how  the  rebel  shakes 

When  he  stands  up  to  hear  his  sentence. 
Now  tell  us  how  many  drams  it  takes 

To  honor  a  jolly  new  acquaintance. 
Five  yelps— that's  five  ;  he's  mighty  knowing ' 

The  night's  before  us,  fill  the  glasses  ! — 
Quick,  sir !  I'm  ill — my  brain  is  going  ! 

Some  brandy ! — thank  you  ' — there ! — it  passes  ! 

Why  not  reform  ?    That's  easily  said  ; 

But  I've  gone  througlisuch  wretched  treatment. 
Sometimes  forgetting  the  taste  of  bread, 

And  scarce  remembering  what  meat  meant. 
That  my  poor  stomach's  past  reform  ; 

And  there  are  times  when,  mad  with  thinking, 
I'd  sell  out  heaven  for  something  warm 

To  prop  a  horrible  inward  sinking. 

Is  there  a  way  to  forget  to  think  ? 

At  your  age,  sir,  home,  fortune,  friends, 
A  dear  girl's  love — but  I  took  to  drink  ; — 

The  same  old  story  ;  you  know  how  it  ends. 
If  you  could  have  seen  these  classic  features — 

You  needn't  laugh,  sir ;  they  were  not  then 
Such  a  burning  libel  on  God's  creatures  ; 

I  was  one  of  your  handsome  men. 

If  you  had  seen  her,  so  fair  and  young, 

Whose  head  was  happy  on  this  breast ! 
If  you  could  have  heard  the  songs  I  sung 

When  the  wine  went  round,   you  wouldn't   have 
guessed 
That  ever  I,  sir,  should  be  straying 

From  door  to  door,  with  fiddle  and  dog, 
Ragged  and  penniless,  and  playing 

To  you  to-night  for  a  glass  of  grog ! 

She's  married  since — a  parson's  wife : 

'Twas  better  for  her  that  we  should  part- 
Better  the  soberest,  prosiest  life 
Than  a  blasted  home  and  a  broken  heart 


42 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


I  have  seen  her  ?    Once  :  I  was  weak  and  spent, 
On  the  dusty  road,  a  carriage  stopped  : 

But  little  she  dreamed,  as  on  she  went, 
Who  kissed  the  coin  that  her  fingers  dropped  ! 

You've  set  me  talking,  sir ;  I'm  sorry  ; 

It  makes  me  wild  to  think  of  the  change  ! 
What  do  you  care  for  a  beggar's  story ! 

Is  it  amusing?  you  find  it  strange? 
I  had  a  mother  so  proud  of  me  ! 

'Twas  well  she  died  before — Do  you  know 
If  the  happy  spirits  in  heaven  can  see 

The  ruin  and  wretchedness  here  below  ? 

Another  glass,  and  strong,  to  deaden 

This  pain ;  then  Roger  and  I  will  start. 
I  wonder,  has  he  such  a  lumpish,  leaden. 

Aching  thing,  in  place  of  a  heart? 
He  is  sad  sometimes,  and  would  weep,  if  he  could, 

No  doubt  remembering  things  that  were — 
A  virtuous  kennel,  with  plenty  of  food, 

And  himself  a  sober,  respectable  cur. 

I'm  better  now  ;  that  glass  was  warming, — 

You  rascal !  limber  your  lazy  feet ! 
We  must  be  fiddling  and  performing 

For  supper  and  bed,  or  starve  in  the  street. — 
Not  a  very  gay  life  to  lead,  you  think  ? 

But  soon  we  shall  go  where  lodgings  are  free. 
And  the  sleepers  need  neither  victuals  nor  drink ; — 

The  sooner,  the  better  for  Roger  and  me  ! 

John  T.  Trowbridge. 


OVER  THE  HILL  TO  THE  POOR-HOUSE. 

VER  the  hill  to  the  poor-house  I'm  trudgin' 
my  weary  way  — 
I,   a  woman  of  seventy,   and  only  a  trifle 
gray— 
I,  who  am  smart  an'  chipper,  for  all  the  years  I've 

told. 
As  many  another  woman,  that's  only  half  as  old. 

Over  the  hill  to  the  poor-house — I  can't  make  it  quite 

clear ! 
Over  the  hill  to  the  poor-house — it  seems  so  horrid 

queer ! 
Many  a  step  I've  taken  a-toilin'  to  and  fro. 
But  this  is  a  sort  of  journey  I  never  thought  to  go. 

What  is  the  use  of  heapin'  on  me  a  pauper's  shame? 
Am  I  lazy  or  crazy  ?  am  I  blind  or  lame  ? 
True,  I  am  not  so  supple,  nor  yet  so  awful  stout. 
But  charity  ain't  no  favor,  if  one  can  live  without. 

I  am  willin'  and  anxious  an'  ready  any  day, 
To  work  for  a  decent  livin',  an'  pay  my  honest  way; 
For  I  can  earn  my  victuals,  an'  more  to,  I'll  be  bound. 
If  any  body  only  is  willin'  to  have  me  round. 


Once  I  was  young  and  han'some — I  was,  upon  my 
soul — 

Once  my  cheeks  were  roses,  my  eyes  as  black  as  coal ; 

And  I  can't  remember,  in  them  days,  of  hearin'  peo- 
ple say. 

For  any  kind  of  reason,  that  I  was  in  their  way. 

'Taint  no  useof  boastin',  or  talkin'  over  free. 
But  many  a  house  an'  home  was  open  then  to  me  ; 
Many  a  han'some  offer  I  had  from  likely  men. 
And  nobody  ever  hinted  that  I  was  a  burden  then. 

And  when  to  John  I  was  married,  sure  he  was  good 

and  smart, 
But  he  and  all  the  neighbors  would  own  I  done  my 

part; 
For  life  was  all  before  me,  an'  I  was  young  an'  strong. 
And  I  worked  the  best  that  I  could  in  tryin'  to  get 

along. 

And  so  we  worked  together :  and  life  was  hard  but 

gay, 
With  now  an'  then  a  baby,  for  to  cheer  us  on  our 

way; 
Till  we  had  half  a  dozen,  an'  all  growed  lean  an'  neat. 
An'  went  to  school  like  others,  an'  had  enough  to  eat. 

So  we  worked  for  the  child'r'n,  and  raised  'em  every 

one  ; 
Worked  for  'em  summer  and  winter,  just  as  we  ought 

to  've  done. 
Only  perhaps  we  humored  'em,   which  some  good 

folks  condemn, 
But  every  couple's  child'rn's  a  heap  the  besttothem. 

Strange  how  much  we  think  of  our  blessed    little 

ones  ! — 
I'd  have  died  for  my  daughters,  I'd  have  died  for  my 

sons  ; 
And  God  He  made  that  rule  of  love;  but  when  we're 

old  and  gray, 
I've  noticed  it  sometimes  somehow  fails  to  work  the 

other  way. 

Strange,  another  thing;  when  our  boys  an'  girls  was 

grown, 
And  when,  exceptin'  Charley,  they'd  left  us  there 

alone  ; 
When  John  he  nearer  an'  nearer  come,  an'  dearer 

seemed  to  be. 
The  Lord  of  Hosts  he  came  one  day  an'  took  him 

away  from  me. 

Still  I  was  bound  to  struggle;  an'  never  to  cringe  or 

fall- 
Still  I  worked  for  Charley,  for  Charley  was  now  my 

all; 
And  Charley  was  pretty  good  to  me,  with  scarce  a 

word  or  frown, 
Till  at  last  he  went  a  courtin',  and  brought  a  wife 

from  town. 


NARRATIVES  AND   BALLADS. 


43 


She  was  somewhat  dressy,  an'  hadn't   a  pleasant 

smile — 
She  was  quite  conceity,  and  carried  a  heap  o'  style : 
But  if  ever  I  tried  to  be  friends,   I  did  with  her,  I 

know ; 
But  she  was  hard  and  proud,  an'  I  couldn't  make  it 

go. 

She  had  an  edication,  an'  that  was  good  for  her  ; 
But  when  she  twitted  me  on  mine  'twas  carryin'  things 

too  fur: 
An'  told  her  once  'fore  company  (an'  it  almost  made 

her  sick), 
That  I  never  swallowed  a  grammar,  or  'et  a  'rith- 

metic 

So  'twas  only  a  few  days  before  the  thing  was  done — 
They  was  a  family  of  themselves,  and  I  another  one; 
And  a  very  little  cottage  for  one  family  will  do. 
But  I  have  never  seen  a  house  that  was  big  enough 
for  two. 

An'  I  never  could  speak  to  suit  her,  never  could 

please  her  eye, 
An'  it  made  me  independent,  an'  then  I  didn't  try  ; 
But  I  was  terribly  staggered,  an'  felt  it  like  a  blow, 
When  Charley  turned  ag'in  me,  an'  told  me  I  could 

go. 

I  went  to  live  with  Susan,  but  Susan's  house  was 

small, 
And  she  was  always  a-hintin'  how  snug  it  was  for 

us  all ; 
And  what  with  her  husband's  sister,  and  what  with 

child'rn  three, 
Twas  easy  to  discover  that  there  wasn't  room  forme. 

An'  then  I  went  to  Thomas,  the  oldest  son  I've  got, 
For  Thomas'  buildings  'd  cover  the  half  of  an  acre 

lot; 
But  all  the  child'rn  was  on  me— I  couldn't  stand  their 

sauce — 
And  Thomas  said  I  needn't  think  I  was  comin'  there 

to  boss. 

An'  then  I  wrote  to  Rebecca — my  girl  who  lives  out 

West, 
And  to  Isaac,  not  far  from  her — some  twenty  miles  at 

best ; 
And  one  of  'em  said  twas  too  warm  there,  for  any 

one  so  old, 
And  t'other  had  an  opinion  the  climate  was  too  cold. 

So  they  have  shirked  and  slighted  me,  an'  shifted  me 

about — 
So  they  have  well  nigh  soured  me,  an'  wore  my  old 

heart  out ; 
But  still  I've  borne  up  pretty  well,  an'  wasn't  much 

put  down, 
Till  Charley  went  to  the  poor  master,  an'  put  me  on 

the  town. 


Over  the  hJll  to  the  poor-house — my  child'rn  dear, 

good-bye ! 
Many  a  night  I've  watched  you  when  only  God  was 

nigh; 
And  God  'II  judge  between  us  ;  but  I  will   al'ays 

pray 
That  you  shall  never  suflTer  the  half  I  do  to-day.     . 

Will  M.  Carleton. 


SONG. 


LADY,  leave  thy  silken  thread 

And  flowery  tapestry — 
There  's  living  roses  on  the  bush, 
And  blossoms  on  the  tree. 
Stoop  where  thou  wilt,  thy  careless  hand 

Some  random  bud  will  meet ; 
Thou  canst  not  tread  but  thou  wilt  find 
The  daisy  at  thy  feet. 

'T  is  like  the  birthday  of  the  world, 

When  earth  was  born  in  bloom  ; 
The  light  is  made  of  many  dyes. 

The  air  is  all  perfume  ; 
There  's  crimson  buds,  and  white  and  blue— 

The  very  rainbow  showers 
Have  turned  to  blossoms  where  they  fell. 

And  sown  the  earth  with  flowers. 

There  's  fairy  tulips  in  the  east — 

The  garden  of  the  sun  ; 
The  very  streams  reflect  the  hues, 

And  blossom  as  they  run  ; 
While  morn  opes  like  a  crimson  rose. 

Still  wet  with  pearly  showers  ; 
Then,  lady,  leave  the  silken  thread 

Thou  twinest  into  flowers. 

Thomas  Hood. 


IN  THE  SUMMER  TWILIGHT. 

N  the  summer  twilight, 

While  yet  the  dew  was  hoar, 
I  went  plucking  purple  pansies 
Till  my  love  should  come  to  shore. 
The  fishing-lights  their  dances 

Were  keeping  out  at  sea, 
And,  "Come,"  I  sang,  "my  true  love. 
Come  hasten  home  to  me  !" 

But  the  sea  it  fell  a-moaning, 

And  the  white  gulls  rocked  thereon, 
And  the  young  moon  dropped  from  heaven. 

And  the  lights  hid,  one  by  one. 
All  silently  their  glances 

Slipped  down  the  cruel  sea, 
And,    "Wait,"    cried  the  night  and  wind 
and  storm — 

"  Wait  till  I  come  to  thee." 

Harriet  Prescott  Spofford. 


44 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


a 


LORD  ULLIN'S  DAUGHTER. 

CHIEFTAIN,  to  the  Highlands  bound, 
Cries,  "  Boatman,  do  not  tarry  ! 
And  I'll  give  thee  a  silver  pound 
To  row  us  o'er  the  ferry." 

"  Now  who  be  ye,  would  cross  Lochgyle, 

This  dark  and  stormy  water?" 
"  O,  I'm  the  chief  of  Ulva's  isle, 

And  this  Lord  Ullin's  daughter. 

"And  fast  before  her  father's  men 
Three  days  we've  fled  together, 
For  should  he  find  us  in  the  glen, 
My  blood  would  stain  the  heather. 

"  His  horsemen  hard  behind  us  ride; 

Should  they  our  steps  discover, 
Then  who  will  cheer  my  bonny  bride 
When  they  have  slain  her  lover?" 

Out  spoke  the  hardy  Highland  wight : 

"  I'll  go,  my  chief — I'm  ready; 
It  is  not  for  your  silver  bright. 

But  for  your  winsome  lady. 

"And  by  my  word  !  the  bonny  bird 

In  danger  shall  not  tarry  : 
So,  though  the  waves  are  raging  white, 
I'll  row  you  o'er  the  ferry." 

By  this  the  storm  grew  loud  apace. 
The  water-wraith  was  shrieking ; 

And  in  the  scowl  of  heaven  each  face 
Grew  dark  as  they  were  speaking. 

But  still,  as  wilder  blew  the  wind, 

And  as  the  night  grew  drearer, 
Adown  the  glen  rode  arm^d  men — 

Their  trampling  sounded  nearer. 

"  O,  haste  thee,  haste  ! "  the  lady  cries, 
"Though  tempests  round  us  gather; 
I'll  meet  the  raging  of  the  skies. 
But  not  an  angry  father." 

The  boat  has  left  a  stormy  land, 

A  stormy  sea  before  her — 
When,  O,  too  strong  for  human  hand. 

The  tempest  gathered  o'er  her ! 

And  still  they  rowed  amidst  the  roar 

Of  waters  fast  prevailing  : 
Lord  Ullan  reached  that  fatal  shore ; 

His  wrath  was  changed  to  wailing. 

For,  sore  dismayed,  through  storm  and  shade, 

His  child  he  did  discover; 
One  lovely  hand  she  stretched  for  aid. 

And  one  was  round  her  lover. 

"  Come  back  !  come  back  !  "  he  cried  in  grief, 

"Across  this  stormy  water ; 
And  I'll  forgive  your  Highland  chief, 
My  daughter!— O,  my  daughter  !  " 


'T  was  vain ; — the  loud  waves  lashed  the  shore. 

Return  or  aid  preventing  ; 
The  waters  wild  went  o'er  his  child: 

And  he  was  left  lamenting. 

Thomas  Campbell. 


THE  FIELD  OF  WATERLOO. 

TOP  !  for  thy  tread  is  on  an  empire's  dust ; 
An  earthquake's  spoil  is  sepulchred  below ; 
Is  the  spot  marked  with  no  colossal  bust  ? 
Nor  column  trophied  for  triumphal  show? 
None  ;  but  the  moral's  truth  tells  simpler  so. 
As  the  ground  was  before,  thus  let  it  be. 

How  that  red  rain  hath  made  the  harvest  grow 
And  this  all  the  world  has  gained  by  thee. 
Thou  first  and  last  of  fields,  king-making  victory  ? 

There  was  a  sound  of  revelry  by  night. 
And  Belgium's  capital  had  gathered  then 

Her  beauty  and  her  chivalry  ;  and  bright 
The  lamps  shone  o'er  fair  women  and  brave  men  : 
A  thousand  hearts  beat  happily  ;  and  when 

Music  arose,  with  its  voluptuous  swell. 
Soft  eyes  looked  love  to  eyes  which  spake  again. 

And  all  went  merry  as  a  marriage-bell. 

But  hush !  hark !  a  deep  sound  strikes  like  a  rising  knell ! 

Did  ye  not  hear  it  ?    No  ;  'twas  but  the  wind. 
Or  the  car  rattling  o'er  the  stony  street : 

On  with  the  dance  !  let  joy  be  unconfined  ! 
No  sleep  till  morn  when  youth  and  pleasure  meet 
To  chase  the  glowing  hours  with  flying  feet ! — 

But  hark  !  that  heavy  sound  breaks  in  once  more. 
As  if  the  clouds  its  echo  would  repeat ; 

And  nearer,  clearer,  deadlier  than  before. 

Arm  !  arm  !  it  is,  it  is  the  cannon's  opening  roar ! 

Within  a  windowed  niche  of  that  high  hall 
Sat  Brunswick's  fated  chieftian  ;  he  did  hear 

That  sound  the  first  amid  tiie  festival. 
And  caught  its  tone  with  death's  prophetic  ear  : 
Ajid  when  they  smiled  because  he  deemed  it  near, 

His  heart  more  truly  knew  that  peal  too  well 
Which  stretched  his  father  on  a  bloody  bier. 

And  roused  the  vengeance  blood  alone  could  quell ; 

He  rushed  into  the  field,  and,  foremost  fighting,  fell ! 

Ah  !  then  and  there  was  hurrying  to  and  fro, 

And  gathering  tears,  and  tremblings  of  distress. 
And  cheeks  all  pale,  which  but  an  hour  ago 

Blushed  at  the  praise  of  their  own  loveliness  ; 

And  there  were  sudden  partings,  such  as  press 
The  life  from  out  young  hearts,  and  choking  sighs 

Which  ne'er  might  be  repeated  :  who  could  guess 
If  ever  more  should  meet  those  mutual  eyes. 
Since  upon  night  so  sweet  such  awful  morn  could  rise  ? 

And  there  was  mounting  in  hot  haste  :  the  steed, 
The  mustering  squadron,  and  the  clattering  car, 

Went  pouring  forward  with  impetuous  speed, 
And  swiftly  forming  in  the  ranks  of  war  ; 


NARRATIVES  AND   BALLADS. 


45 


And  the  deep  thunder,  peal  on  peal,  afar, 
And  near,  the  beat  of  the  alarming  drum 

Roused  up  the  soldier  ere  the  morning-star ; 
While  thronged  the  citizens  with  terror  dumb, 
Or  whispering,  with  white  lips,  "  The  foe  !  they  come  ! 
they  come !" 

Last  noon  beheld  them  full  of  lusty  life, 

Last  eve  m  Beauty's  circle  proudly  gay, 
The  midnight  brought  the  signal  sound  of  strife, 

The  morn  the  marshaling  in  arms — the  day 

Battle's  magnificently  stem  array ! 
The  thunder-clouds  close  o'er  it,  which  when  rent 

The  earth  is  covered  thick  with  other  clay, 
Which  her  own  clay  shall  cover,  heaped  and  pent, 
Rider  and  horse — friend,  foe — in  one  red  burial  blent ! 

Lord  Byron. 


u 


THE  PEBBLE  AND  THE  ACORN. 

AM  a  pebble  !  and  yield  to  none  !" 
Were  the  swelling  words  of  a  tiny  stone  ;- 
"Nor  time  nor  seasons  can  alter  me  ; 
I  am  abiding,  while  ages  flee. 
The  pelting  hail  and  the  drizzling  rain 
Have  tried  to  soften  me,  long,  in  vain ; 
And  the  tender  dew  has  sought  to  melt 
Or  touch  rny  heart ;  but  it  was  not  felt.  , 
There's  none  can  tell  about  my  birth, 
For  I'm  old  as  the  big,  round  earth. 
The  children  of  men  arise,  and  pass 
Out  of  the  world,  like  the  blades  of  grass  ; 
And  many  a  foot  on  me  has  trod, 
That's  gone  from  sight,  and  under  the  sod. 
I  am  a  Pebble  I  but  who  art  thou. 
Rattling  along  from  the  restless  bough  !" 

The  Acorn  was  shock'd  at  this  rude  salute, 
And  lay  for  a  moment  abash' d  and  mute  ; 
She  never  before  had  been  so  near 
This  gravelly  ball,  the  mundane  sphere  ; 
And  she  felt  for  a  time  at  a  loss  to  know 
How  to  answer  a  thing  so  coarse  and  low. 
But  to  give  reproof  of  a  nobler  sort 
Than  the  angry  look,  or  the  keen  retort. 
At  length  she  said,  in  a  gentle  tone, 

■'Since  it  has  happen' d  that  I  am  thrown 
From  the  lighter  element  where  I  grew, 
Down  to  another  so  hard  and  new, 
And  beside  a  personage  so  august, 
Abased,  I  will  cover  my  bead  with  dust. 
And  quickly  retire  from  the  sight  of  one 
Whom  time,  nor  season,  nor  storm,  nor  sun, 
Nor  the  gentle  dew,  nor  the  grinding  heel, 
Has  ever  subdued,  or  made  to  feel !" 
And  soon  in  the  earth  she  sank  away 
From  the  comfortless  spot  where  the  Pebble  lay. 

But  it  was  not  long  ere  the  soil  was  broke 
By  the  peering  head  of  an  infant  oak  ! 
And,  as  it  arose,  and  its  branches  spread. 


The  Pebble  looked  up,  and,  wondering,  said, 

"A  modest  Acorn — never  to  tell 
What  was  enclosed  in  its  simple  shell  ! 
That  the  pride  of  the  forest  was  folded  up 
In  the  narrow  space  of  its  little  cup  ! 
And  meekly  to  sink  in  the  darksome  earth. 
Which  proves  that  nothing  could  hide  her  worth  ! 
And,  oh  !  how  many  will  tread  on  me. 
To  come  and  admire  the  beautiful  tree. 
Whose  head  is  towering  toward  the  sky. 
Above  such  a  worthless  thing  as  I ! 
Useless  and  vain,  a  cumberer  here, 
I  have  been  idling  from  year  to  year. 
But  never  from  this  shall  a  vaunting  word 
From  the  humbled  Pebble  again  be  heard, 
Till  something  without  me  or  within 
Shall  show  the  purpose  for  which  I've  been?" 
The  Pebble  its  vow  could  not  forget, 
And  it  lies  there  wrapt  in  silence  yet. 

Hannah  F.  Gould. 


A  HUNTING  WE  WILL  GO. 

.  HE  dusky  night  rides  down  the  sky, 
And  ushers  in  the  morn  : 
The  hounds  all  join  in  glorious  cry, 
The  huntsman  winds  his  horn, 

And  a  hunting  we  will  go. 

The  wife  around  her  husband  throws 

Her  arms  to  make  him  stay ; 
'  My  dear,  it  rains,  it  hails,  it  blows  ; 
You  cannot  hunt  to-day." 

Yet  a  hunting  we  will  go. 

Away  they  fly  to  'scape  the  rout. 
Their  steeds  they  soundly  switch  ; 

Some  are  thrown  in,  and  some  thrown  out. 
And  some  thrown  in  the  ditch. 

Yet  a  hunting  we  will  go. 

Sly  Reynard  now  like  lightning  flies. 

And  sweeps  across  the  vale ; 
And  when  the  hounds  too  near  he  spies, 

He  drops  his  bushy  tail. 

Then  a  hunting  we  will  go. 

At  last  his  strength  to  faintness  worn. 

Poor  Reynard  ceases  flight ; 
Then  hungry,  homeward  we  return, 

To  feast  away  the  night. 

When  a  hunting  we  did  go. 

Ye  jovial  hunters,  in  the  mom 
Prepare  then  for  the  chase  ; 
Rise  at  the  sounding  of  the  horn 
And  health  with  sport  embrace, 

When  a  hunting  we  do  go. 
Henry  Fielding. 


46 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


MAUD  MULLER. 

AUD  Muller,  on  a  summer's  day, 
Raked  the  meadow  sweet  with  hay. 

Beneath  her  torn  hat  glowed  the  wealth 
Of  simple  beauty  and  rustic  health. 

Singing,  she  wrought,  and  her  merry  glee 
The  mock-bird  echoed  from  his  tree. 

But,  when  she  glanced  to  the  far-off  town. 
White  from  its  hill-slope  looking  down, 

The  sweet  song  died,  and  a  vague  unrest 
And  a  nameless  longing  filled  her  breast — 

A  wish,  that  she  hardly  dared  to  own, 
For  something  better  than  she  had  known. 

The  Judge  rode  slowly  down  the  lane, 
Smoothing  his  horse's  chestnut  mane. 

He  drew  his  bridle  in  the  shade 

Of  the  apple-trees,  to  greet  the  maid, 

And  ask  a  draught  from  the  spring  that  flowed 
Through  the  meadow  across  the  road. 

She  stooped  where  the  cool  spring  bubbled  up. 
And  filled  for  him  her  small  tin-cup, 

And  blushed  as  she  gave  it,  looking  down 
On  her  feet  so  bare  and  her  tattered  gown, 

"Thanks  !"  said  the  Judge,  "  a  sweeter  draught 
iJ'rom  a  fairer  hand  was  never  quaffed." 

He  spoke  of  the  grass  and  flowers  and  trees, 
Of  the  singing  birds  and  the  humming  bees  ; 

Then  talked  of  the  haying  and  wondered  whether 
The  cloud  in  the  west  would  bring  foul  weather. 

And  Maud  forgot  her  briar-torn  gown. 
And  her  graceful  ankles  bare  and  brown  ; 

And  listened,  while  a  pleased  surprise 
Looked  from  her  long-lashed  hazel  eyes. 

At  last,  like  one  who  for  delay 
Seeks  a  vain  excuse,  he  rode  away, 

Maud  Muller  looked  and  sighed  :  "Ah,  me  ! 
That  I  the  Judge's  bride  might  be ! 

"  He  would  dress  me  up  in  silks  so  fine, 
And  praise  and  toast  me  at  his  wine. 

"  My  father  should  wear  a  broadcloth  coat ; 
My  brother  should  sail  a  painted  boat. 

"I'd  dress  my  mother  so  grand  and  gay. 
And  the  baby  should  have  a  new  toy  each  day. 

"And  I'd  feed  the  hungry  and  clothe  the  poor, 
And  all  should  bless  me  who  left  our  door." 


The  Judge  looked  back  as  he  climbed  the  hill, 
And  saw  Maud  Muller  standing  still. 

"A  form  more  fair,  a  face  more  sweet, 
Ne'er  hath  it  been  my  lot  to  meet. 

"  And  her  modest  answer  and  graceful  air 
Show  her  wise  and  good  as  she  is  fair. 

"Would  she  were  mine,  and  I  to-daj'. 
Like  her,  a  harvester  of  hay  : 

"  No  doubtful  balance  of  rights  and  wrongs, 
Nor  weary  lawyers  with  endless  tongues, 

"  But  low  of  cattle,  and  song  of  birds, 
And  health,  and  quiet,  and  loving  words." 

But  he  thought  of  his  sisters,  proud  and  cold, 
And  his  mother,  vain  of  her  rank  and  gold. 

So,  closing  his  heart,  the  Judge  rode  on, 
And  Maud  was  left  in  the  field  alone. 

But  the  lawyers  smiled  that  afternoon, 
When  he  hummed  in  court  an  old  love-tune  ; 

And  the  j^oung  girl  mused  beside  the  well. 
Till  the  rain  on  the  unraked  clover  fell. 

He  wedded  a  wife  of  richest  dower, 
Who  lived  for  fashion,  as  he  for  power. 

Yet  oft,  in  his  marble  hearth's  bright  glow, 
He  watched  a  picture  come  and  go : 

And  sweet  Maud  Muller's  hazel  eyes 
Looked  out  in  their  innocent  surprise. 

Oft  when  the  wine  in  his  glass  was  red, 
He  longed  for  the  wayside  well  instead  ; 

And  closed  his  eyes  on  his  garnished  rooms, 
To  dream  of  meadows  and  clover-blooms. 

And  the  proud  man  sighed,  with  a  secret  pain, 
"Ah,  that  I  were  free  again  ! 

Free  as  when  I  rode  that  day, 

Where  the  barefoot  maiden  raked  her  hay." 

She  wedded  a  man  unlearned  and  poor, 
And  many  children  played  round  her  door. 

But  care  and  sorrow,  and  child-birth  pain. 
Left  their  traces  on  heart  and  brain. 

And  oft,  when  the  summer  sun  shone  hot 
On  the  new-mown  hay  in  the  meadow  lot. 

And  she  heard  the  little  spring  brook  fall 
Over  the  roadside,  through  the  wall, 

In  the  shade  of  the  apple-tree  again 
She  saw  a  rider  draw  his  rein, 

And,  gazing  down  with  timid  grace. 
She  felt  his  pleased  eyes  read  her  face. 


NARRATIVES  AND  BALLADS. 


47 


Sometimes  her  narrow  kitchen  walls 
Stretched  away  into  stately  halls  ; 

The  weary  wheel  to  a  spinnet  turned, 
The  tallow  candle  an  astral  burned ; 

And  for  him  who  sat  by  the  chimney  lug, 
Dozing  and  grumbling  o'er  pipe  and  mug, 

A  manly  form  at  her  side  she  saw, 
And  joy  was  duty  and  love  was  law. 

Then  she  took  up  her  burden  of  life  again. 
Saying  only,  "  It  might  have  been.'' 

Alas  for  maiden,  alas  forjudge, 

For  rich  repiner  and  household  drudge  ! 

God  pity  them  both,  and  pity  us  all, 
Who  vainly  the  dreams  of  youth  recall ; 

For  all  sad  words  of  tongue  or  pen. 

The  saddest  are  these  :  "  It  might  have  been  !  " 

Ah,  well !  for  us  all  some  sweet  hope  lies 
Deeply  buried  from  human  eyes  ; 

And,  in  the  hereafter,  ansrels  may 
Roll  the  stone  from  its  grave  away ! 

John  G.  Whittier. 

BINGEN  ON  THE  RHINE. 

SOLDIER  of  the  Legion  lay  dying  in  Algiers, 
There  was  lack  of  woman's  nursing,  there 

was  dearth  of  woman's  tears  ; 
But  a  comrade  stood  beside  him,  while  his 
life-blood  ebbed  away. 
And  bent,  with  pitying  glances,  to  hear  what  he  might 

say. 
The  dying  soldier  faltered,  and  he  took  that  com- 
rade's hand. 
And  he  faid,  "I  nevermore  shall  see  my  own,  my  na 

tive  land ; 
Take  a  message,  and  a  token,  to  some  distant  friends 

of  mine. 
For  I  was    born    at    Bingen — fair    Bingen   on   the 
Rhine. 

''Tell  my  brothers  and  companions,  when  they  meet 
and  crowd  around 

To  hear  my  mournful  story,  in  the  pleasant  vineyard 
ground, 

That  we  fought  the  battle  bravely,  and  when  the  day 
was  done. 

Full  many  a  corse  lay  ghastly  pale  beneath  the  set- 
ting sun ; 

And,  mid  the  dead  and  dying,  were  some  grown  old 
in  wars — 

The  death-wounds  on  their  gallant  breasts,  the  last  of 
many  scars ; 


And  some  were  young,  and  suddenly  beheld  life's 

morn  decline — 
And  one  had  come  from  Bingen —  fair  Bingen  on  the 

Rhine. 

"  Tell  my  mother  that  her  other  son  shall  comfort  her 

old  age ; 
For  I  was  still  a  truant  bird,  that  thought  his  home  a 

cage, 
For  my  father  was  a  soldier,  and  even  as  a  child 
My  heart  leaped  forth  to  hear  him  tell  of  struggles 

fierce  and  wild ; 
And  when  he  died,  and  left  us  to  divide  his  scanty 

hoard, 
I  let  them  take  whate'er  they  would,  but  kept  my 

father's  sword  ; 
And  with  boyish  love  I  hung  it  where  the  bright  light 

used  to  shine. 
On  the  cottage  wall  at  Bingen — calm  Bingen  on  the 

Rhine. 

"Tell  my  sister  not  to  weep  for  me,  and  sob  with 

drooping  head. 
When  troops  come  marching  home  again  with  glad 

and  gallant  tread, 
But  to  look  upon  them  proudly,  with  a  calm  and 

steadfast  eye. 
For  her  brother  was  a  soldier  too,  and  not  afraid  to 

die ; 
And  if  a  comrade  seek  her  love,    I   ask  her  in  my 

name, 
To  listen  to  him  kindly,  without  regret  or  shame, 
And  to  hang  the  old  sword  in  its  place  ( my  father's 

sword  and  mine  t, 
For  the  honor  of  old  Bingen — dear  Bingen  on  the 

Rhine. 

"There's  another — not  a  sister;  in  the  happy  days 
gone  by 

You'd  have  known  her  by  the  merriment  that  spark- 
led in  her  eye ; 

Too  innocent  for  coquetry — too  fond  for  idle  scorn- 
mg— 

0  friend  \  I  fear  the  lightest  heart  makes  sometimes 

heaviest  mourning ! 
Tell  her  the  last  night  of  my  life  (  for,  ere  the  moon  be 

risen. 
My    body    will    be  out  of  pain,  my  soul  be  out  of 

prison ) 

1  dreamed  I  stood  with  her,  and  saw  the  yellow  sun- 

light shine 
On  the  vine-clad  hills  of  Bingen— fair  Bingen  on  the 
Rhine. 

"I  saw  the  blue  Rhine  sweep  along;   I  heard,  or 

seemed  to  hear. 
The  German  songs  we  used  to  sing,  in  chorus  sweet 

and  clear ; 
And  down  the  pleasant  river,  and  up  the  slanting 

hill, 


48 


CROWN   JEWELS. 


The  echoing  chorus  sounded,  through  the  evening 
calm  and  still ; 

And  her  glad  blue  eyes  were  on  me,  as  we  passed, 
with  friendly  talk, 

Down  many  a  path  beloved  of  yore,  and  well  remem- 
bered walk ! 

And  her  little  hand  lay  lightly,  confidingly  in  mine, — 

But  we'll  meet  no  more  at  Bingen — loved  Bingen  on 
the  Rhine." 

His  trembling  voice  grew  faint  and  hoarse,  his  grasp 

was  childish  weak — 
His  eyes  put  on  a  dying  look — he  sighed,  and  ceased 

to  speak ; 
His  comrade  bent  to  lift  him,  but  the  spark  of  life  had 

fled— 
The  soldier  of  the  Legion  in  a  foreign  land  is  dead  ! 
And  the  soft  moon  rose  up  slowly,  and  calmly  she 

looked  down 
On  the  red  sand  of  the  battle-field,  with  bloody  corses 

strewn  ; 
Yes,   calmly   on  the  dreadful  scene  her  pale  light 

seemed  to  shine, 
AS  it  shown  on  distant  Bingen — fair  Bingen  on  the 

Rhine. 

Caroline  Elizabeth  Norton. 


THE  SANDS  OF  DEE. 

MARY,  go  and  call  the  cattle  home. 
And  call  the  cattle  home, 
And  call  the  cattle  home, 
Across  the  sands  of  Dee  ;" 
The  western  wind  was  wild  and  dark  wi'  foam, 
And  all  alone  went  she. 

The  western  tide  crept  up  along  the  sand, 
And  o'er  and  o'er  the  sand. 
And  round  and  round  the  sand. 
As  far  as  eye  could  see. 
The  rolling  mist  came  down  and  hid  the  land,— 
And  never  home  came  she. 

''  O,  is  it  weed,  or  fish,  or  floating  hair — 
A  tress  o'  golden  hair, 
A  drowned  maiden's  hair 
Above  the  nets  at  sea  ? 
Was  never  salmon  yet  that  shone  so  fair 
Among  the  stakes  on  Dee." 

They  rowed  her  in  across  the  rolling  foam, 
The  cruel  crawling  foam. 
The  cruel  hungry  foam, 
To  her  grave  beside  the  sea  ; 
But  still  the  boatmen  hear  her  call  the  cattle  home 
Across  the  sands  of  Dee  ! 

Charles  Ktngsley. 


A  NAME  IN  THE  SAND. 

LONE  I  walk'd  the  ocean  strand  ; 
A  pearly  shell  was  in  my  hand : 
I  stoop'd  and  wrote  upon  the  sand 
My  name — the  year — the  day. 
As  onward  from  the  spot  I  pass'd. 
One  lingering  look  behind  I  cast: 
A  wave  came  rolling  high  and  fast, 
And  wash'd  my  lines  away. 

And  so,  methought,  'twill  shortly  be 
With  every  mark  on  earth  from  me  : 
A  wave  of  dark  oblivion's  sea 

Will  sweep  across  the  place 
Where  I  have  trod  the  sandy  shore 
Of  Time,  and  been  to  be  no  more. 
Of  me — my  day — the  name  I  bore. 

To  leave  nor  track  nor  trace. 

And  yet,  with  Him  who  counts  the  sands 
And  holds  the  waters  in  his  hands, 
I  know  a  lasting  record  stands, 

Inscribed  against  my  name. 
Of  all  this  mortal  part  has  wrought  ; 
Of  all  this  thinking  soul  has  thought : 
And  from  these  fleeting  moments  caught 

For  glory  or  for  shame. 

Hannah  F.  Gould. 


OVER  THE  HILLS  FROM  THE  POOR-HOUSE. 

[Sequel  to  "  Over  the  Hill  to  the  Poor-House." ] 

VER  the  hills  tothe  poor-house  sad  paths  have 

been  made  to-day. 
For  sorrow  is  near,  such  as  maketh  the  heads 
"^  of  the  young  turn  gray, 

Causing  the  heart  of  the  careless  to  throb  with  a  fevered 

breath — 
The  sorrow  that  leads  to  the  chamber  whose  light  has 
gone  out  in  death. 

To  Susan,  Rebecca  and  Isaac,  to  Thomas  and  Charley, 

word  sped 
That  mother  was  ill  and  fast  failing,  perhaps  when  they 

heard,  might  be  dead  ; 
But  e'en  while  they  wrote  she  was  praying  that  some  of 

her  children  might  come 
To  hear  from  her  lips  their  last  blessing  before  she 

should  start  for  her  home. 

To  Susan,  poor  Susan  !  how  bitter  the  agony  brought 

by  the  call. 
For  deep  in  her  heart  for  her  mother  wide  rooms  had 

been  left  after  all ; 
And  now,  that  she  thought,  by  her  fireside  one  place 

had  been  vacant  for  years — 
And  while   "o'er  the  hills  she  was  speeding  her 

path  might  be  traced  by  her  tears, 


NARRATIVES   AND   BALLADS. 


49 


Rebecca  ?  she  heard  not  the  tidings,  but  those  who 

bent  over  her  knew 
That  led  by  the  Angel  of  Death,  near  the  waves  of 

the  river  she  drew  ; 
Delirious,  ever  she  told  them  her  mother  was  cooling 

her  head, 
While,  weeping,  they  thought  that  ere  morning  both 

mother  and  child  might  be  dead. 

And,  kneeling  beside  her,  stern  Isaac  was  quiv'ring 
in  aspen-like  grief, 

While  waves  of  sad  mem'ry  surged  o'er  him  like  bil- 
lows of  wind  o'er  the  leaf; 

"Too  late,"  were  the  words  that  had  humbled  his 
cold,  haughty  pride  to  the  dust, 

And  Peace,  with  her  olive-boughs  laden,  crowned 
loving  forgiveness  with  trust. 

Bowed  over  his  letters  and  papers,  sat  Thomas,  his 

brow  lined  by  thought, 
But  little  he  heeded  the  markets  or  news  of  his  gains 

that  they  brought ; 
His  lips  grew  as  pale  as  his  cheek,  but  new  purpose 

seemed  born  in  his  eye, 
And  Thomas  went  "over  the  hills,"  to  the  mother 

that  shortly  must  die. 

To  Charley,   her    youngest,    her   pride,    came    the 

mother's  message  that  morn, 
And  he  was  away  "o'er  the  hills"  ere  the  sunlight 

blushed  over  the  corn  ; 
And,  strangest  of  all,  by  his  side,  was  the  wife  he  had 

"brought  from  the  town," 
And   silently    wept,    while    her   tears   strung    with 

diamonds  her  plain  mourning  gown. 

For  each  had  been  thinking,  of  late,  how  they  missed 

the  old  mother's  sweet  smile. 
And  wond'ring  how  they  could  have  been  so  blind 

and  unjust  all  that  while  ; 
They  thought  of  their  harsh,  cruel  words,  and  longed 

to  atone  for  the  past. 
When  swift  o'er  the  heart  of  vain  dreams  swept  the 

presence  of  death's  chilling  blast. 

So  into  the  chamber  of  death,  one  by  one,  these  sad 

children  had  crept. 
As  they,  in  their  childhooa,  had  done,  when  mother 

was  tired  and  slept— 
And  peace,  rich  as  then,  came  to  each,  as  they  drank 

in  her  blessing,  so  deep. 
That,  breathing  into  her  life,  she  fell  back  in  her  last 

blessed  sleep. 

And  when  "o'er  the  hills  from  the  poor-house,"  that 

mother  is  tenderly  borne, 
The  life  of  her  life,  her  loved  children,  tread  softly, 

and  silently  mourn. 
For  theirs  is  no  rivulet  sorrow,  but  deep  as  the  ocean 

is  deep. 
And  into  our  lives,  with  sweet  healing,  the  balm  of 

their  bruising  m^  creep. 


For  swift  come  the  flashings  of  temper,  and  torrents 

of  words  come  as  swift. 
Till  out  'mong  the  tide-waves  of  anger,  how  often  we 

thoughtlessly  drift! 
And  heads  that  are  gray  with  life's  ashes,  and  feet 

that  walk  down  'mong  the  dead. 
We  send  "o'er  tlie  hills  to  the  poor-house  "  for  love, 

and,  it  may  be,  for  bread. 

Oh !   when  shall  we  value  the  living  while  yet  the 

keen  sickle  is  stayed, 
Nor  slight  the  wild  flower  in  its  blooming,  till  all  its 

sweet  life  is  decayed  ? 
Yet  often  the  fragrance  is  richest,  when  poured  from 

the  bruised  blossom's  soul. 
And  '■  over  the  hills  from  the  poor-house  "  the  rarest 

of  melodies  roll. 

May  Mignonette. 


MONA'S  WATERS. 

H  '  Mona's  waters  are  blue  and  bright 

When  the  sun  shines  out  like  a  gay  young 
lover ; 
But  Mona's  waves  are  dark  as  night 
When  the  face  of  heaven  is  clouded  over. 
The  wild  wind  drives  the  crested  foam 

Far  up  the  steep  and  rocky  mountain. 
And  booming  echoes  drown  the  voice. 
The  silvery  voice,  of  Mona's  fountain. 

Wild,  wild  against 'that  mountain's  side  "■ 

The  wrathful  waves  were  up  and  beating, 
When  stern  Glenvarloch's  chieftain  came  ; 

With  anxious  brow  and  hurried  greeting 
He  bade  the  widowed  mother  send 

(While  loud  the  tempest's  voice  was  raging) 
Her  fair  young  son  across  the  flood. 

Where  winds  and  waves  their  strife  were  waging. 

And  still  that  fearful  mother  prayed, 

"  Oh  !  yet  delay,  delay  till  morning. 
For  weak  the  hand  that  glides  our  bark. 

Though  brave  his  heart,  all  danger  scorning.' 
Little  did  stern  Glenvarloch  heed  ; 

"The  safety  of  my  fortress  tower 
Depends  on  tidings  he  must  bring 

From  Fairlee  bank,  within  the  hour. 

'See'st  thou,  across  the  sullen  wave, 

A  blood-red  banner  wildly  streaming  ? 
That  flag  a  message  brings  to  me 

Of  which  my  foes  are  little  dreaming. 
The  boy  must  put  his  boat  across, 

(Gold  shall  repay  his  hour  of  danger,) 
And  bring  me  back,  with  care  and  speed. 

Three  letters  from  the  light-browed  stranger." 

The  orphan  boy  leaped  lightly  in  ; 

Bold  was  his  eye  and  brow  of  beauty. 
And  bright  his  smile  as  thus  he  spoke  . 

"  I  do  but  pay  a  vassal's  duty  ; 


50 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


Fear  not  for  me,  O  mother  dear ! 

See  how  the  boat  the  tide  is  spurning  ; 
The  storm  will  cease,  the  sky  will  clear, 

And  thou  wilt  watch  me  safe  returning." 

His  bark  shot  on — now  up,  now  down, 

Over  the  waves — the  snowy-crested  ; 
Now  like  a  dart  it  sped  along, 

Now  like  a  white-winged  sea-bird  rested  ; 
And  ever  when  the  wind  sank  low, 

Smote  on  the  ear  that  woman's  wailing. 
As  long  she  watched,  with  streaming  eyes. 

That  fragile  bark's  uncertain  sailing. 

He  reached  the  shore — the  letters  claimed  ; 

Triumphant,  heard  the  stranger's  wonder 
That  one  so  young  should  brave  alone 

The  heaving  lake,  the  rolling  thunder. 
And  once  again  his  snowy  sail 

Was  seen  by  her — that  mourning  mother  ; 
And  once  she  heard  his  shouting  voice — 

That  voice  the  waves  were  soon  to  smother. 

Wild  burst  the  wind,  wide  flapped  the  sail, 

A  crashing  peal  of  thunder  followed  ; 
The  gust  swept  o'er  the  water's  face, 

And  caverns  in  the  deep  lake  hollowed. 
The  gust  swept  past,  the  waves  grew  calm. 

The  thunder  died  along  the  mountain  ; 
But  where  was  he  who  used  to  play,  ^ 

On  sunny  days,  by  Mona's  fountain  ? 

His  cold  corpse  floated  to  the  shore, 

Where  knelt  his  lone  and  shrieking  mother  ; 
And  bitterly  she  wept  for  him. 

The  widow's  son,  who  «had  no  brother  ! 
She  raised  his  arm — the  hand  was  closed  ; 

With  pain  his  stiffened  fingers  parted, 
And  on  the  sand  three  letters  dropped  ! — 

His  last  dim  thought — the  faithful-hearted. 

Glenvarloch  gazed,  and  on  his  brow 

Remorse  with  pain  and  grief  seemed  blending  ; 
A  purse  of  gold  he  flung  beside 

That  mother,  o'er  her  dead  child  bending. 
Oh  !  wildly  laughed  that  woman  then, 

"  Glenvarloch  !  would  ye  dare  to  measure 
The  holy  life  that  God  has  given 

Against  a  heap  of  golden  treasure  ? 

"  Ye  spurned  my  prayer,  for  we  were  poor  ; 

But  know,  proud  man,  that  God  hath  power 
To  smite  the  king  on  Scotland's  throne, 

The  chieftain  in  his  fortress  tower. 
Frown  on  !  frown  on  !  I  fear  ye  not ; 

We've -done  the  last  of  chieftain's  bidding, 
And  cold  he  lies,  for  whose  young  sake 

I  used  to  bear  your  wrathful  chiding. 

"  Will  gold  bring  back  his  cheerful  voice. 
That  used  to  win  mj-  heart  from  sorrow  ? 
Will  silver  warm  the  frozen  blood, 
Or  make  my  heart  less  lone  to-morrow  ? 


Go  back  and  seek  your  mountain  home. 
And  when  ye  kiss  your  fair-haired  daughter, 

Remember  him  who  died  to-night 
Beneath  the  waves  of  Mona's  water." 

Old  years  rolled  on,  and  new  ones  came — 

Foes  dare  not  brave  Glenvarloch's  tower  ; 
But  naught  could  bar  the  sickness  out 

That  stole  within  fair  Annie's  bower. 
The  o'erblown  floweret  in  the  sun 

Sinks  languid  down,  and  withers  daily, 
And  so  she  sank — her  voice  grew  faint, 

Her  laugh  no  longer  sounded  gaily. 

Her  step  fell  on  the  old  oak  floor 

As  noiseless  as  the  snow-shower's  drifting  ; 
And  from  her  sweet  and  serious  eyes 
They  seldom  saw  the  dark  lid  lifting. 
"  Bring  aid  !  Bring  aid  !"  the  father  cries  ; 

"  Bring  aid  !"  each  vassal's  voice  is  crying ; 
"  The  fair-haired  beauty  of  the  isles. 

Her  pulse  is  faint — her  life  is  flying !" 

He  called  in  vain  ;  her  dim  eyes  turned 

And  met  his  own  with  parting  sorrow, 
For  well  she  knew,  that  fading  girl. 

That  he  must  weep  and  wail  the  morrow. 
Her  faint  breath  ceased ;  the  father  bent 

And  gazed  upon  his  fair-haired  daughter. 
What  thought  he  on .?    The  widow's  son. 

And  the  stormy  night  by  Mona's  water. 


THE  WRECK  OF  THE  HESPERUS. 

T  was  the  schooner  Hesperus, 
That  sail'd  the  wintry  sea  ; 
And  the  skipper  had  taken  his  little  daughter, 
To  bear  him  company. 

Blue  were  her  eyes  as  the  fairy  flax, 

Her  cheeks  like  the  dawn  of  day ; 
And  her  bosom  white  as  the  l^wthom  buds, 

That  ope  in  the  month  of  May. 

The  skipper  he  stood  beside  the  helm, 

With  his  pipe  in  his  mouth, 
And  watched  how  the  veering  flaw  did  blow 

The  smoke,  now  west,  now  south. 

Then  up,  and  spake  an  old  sailor. 

Had  sail'd  the  Spanish  Main — 
I  pray  thee,  put  into  yonder  port. 

For  I  fear  a  hurricane. 

Last  night  the  moon  had  a  golden  ring. 

And  to-night  no  moon  we  see," 
The  skipper  he  blew  a  whiff  from  his  pipe, 

And  a  scornful  laugh  laugh'd  he. 

Colder  and  louder  blew  the  wind, 

A  gale  from  the  northeast ; 
The  snow  fell  hissing  in  the  brine. 

And  the  billows  froth'd  like  yeast. 


NARRATIVES  AND   BALLADS. 


61 


Down  came  the  storm,  and  smote  amain 

The  vessel  in  its  strength  ; 
She  shudder'd,  and  paused,  like  a  frighted  steed, 

Then  leap'd  her  cable's  length. 

Cohie  hither,  come  hither,  mv  little  daughter, 

And  do  not  tremble  so  ; 
For  I  can  weather  the  roughest  gale 

That  ever  wind  did  blow." 

He  wrapp'd  her  warm  in  his  seaman's  coat, 

Against  the  stinging  blast ; 
He  cut  a  rope  from  a  broken  spar. 

And  bound  her  to  the  mast. 

"  O  father,  I  hear  the  church-bells  ring  ! 

O  say,  what  may  it  be  ?" 
"  'Tis  a  fog-bell  on  a  rock-bound  coast," 

And  he  steer'd  for  the  open  sea. 

"  O  father,  I  hear  the  sound  of  g^ns  !  ^ 

O  say,  what  may  it  be  ?" 
"Some  ship  in  distress,  that  cannot  live 

In  such  an  angry  sea  1" 

"  O  father,  I  see  a  gleaming  light ! 
O  say,  what  may  it  be  ?" 
But  the  father  answer' d  never  a  word — 
A  frozen  corpse  was  he  ! 

Lash'dto  the  helm  all  stiff  and  stark. 

With  his  face  to  the  skies, 
The  lantern  gleam'd  thro'  the  gleaming  snow 

On  his  fix'd  and  glassy  eyes. 

Then  the  maiden  clasp'd  her  hands  and  prayed, 

That  sav^d  she  might  be  ; 
And  she  thought  of  Christ,  who  still'd  the  waves, 

On  the  lake  of  Galilee. 

And  fast  through  the  midnight  dark  and  drear, 
.        Through  the  whistling  sleet  and  snow. 
Like  a  sheeted  ghost,  the  vessel  swept. 
Towards  the  reef  of  Norman's  Woe. 

And  ever,  the  fitful  gusts  between, 

A  sound  came  from  the  land  ; 
It  was  the  sound  of  the  trampling  surf 

On  the  rocks,  and  the  hard  sea-sand. 

The  breakers  were  right  beneath  her  bows, 

She  drifted  a  dreary  wreck. 
And  a  whooping  billow  swept  the  crew. 

Like  icicles,  from  her  deck. 

She  struck,  where  the  white  and  fleecy  waves 

^ook'd  soft  as  carded  wool  ; 
But  the  cruel  rocks  they  gored  her  side 

Like  the  horns  of  an  angry  bull. 

Her  rattling  shrouds,  all  sheath'd  in  ice, 
Wfth  the  masts,  went  by  the  board  ; 

Like  a  vessel  of  glass,  she  stove  and  sank — 
Ho  !  ho  !  the  breakers  roar'd. 


At  daybreak,  on  the  bleak  sea-beach, 

A  fisherman  stood  aghast, 
To  see  the  form  of  a  maiden  fair 

Lash'd  close  to  a  drifting  mast. 

The  salt  sea  was  frozen  on  her  breast, 

The  salt  tears  in  her  eyes  ; 
And  he  saw  her  hair,  like  the  brown  sea-weed 

On  the  billows  fall  and  rise. 

Such  was  the  wreck  of  the  Hesperus, 

In  the  midnight,  and  the  snow  ; 
Christ  save  us  all  from  a  death  like  this, 

On  the  reef  of  Norman's  Woe  ; 

Henry  Wadsvvorth  Longfellow, 


AFTER  BLENHEIM. 

T  was  a  summer  evening. 

Old  Kaspar's  work  was  done, 
And  he  before  his  cottage  door 

Was  sitting  in  the  sun  ; 
And  by  him  sported  on  the  green 
His  little  grandchild  Wilhelmine. 

She  saw  her  brother  Peterkin 
Roll  something  large  and  round, 

Which  he  beside  the  rivulet 
In  playing  there  had  found  ; 

He  came  to  ask  what  he  had  found, 

That  was  so  large  and  smooth  and  round. 

Old  Kaspar  took  it  from  the  boy. 

Who  stood  expectant  by  ; 
And  then  the  old  man  shook  his  head, 
And  with  a  natural  sigh, 
"  'Tis  some  poor  fellow's  skull,"  said  he, 
"  Who  fell  in  the  great  victory. 

"I  find  them  in  the  garden. 

For  there  s  many  hereabout ; 
And  often  when  I  go  to  plough, 

The  ploughshare  turns  them  out, 
For  many  thousand  men,"  said  he, 
"  Were  slain  in  that  great  victory." 

"  Now  tell  us  what  'twas  all  about," 
Young  Peterkin  he  cries  ; 
And  little  Wilhelmine  looks  up 
With  wonder-waiting  eyes ; 
"Now  tell  us  all  about  the  war, 
And  what  they  fought  each  other  for." 

"It  was  the  English,"  Kaspar  cried, 
"  Who  put  the  French  to  rout ; 
But  what  they  fought  each  other  for 

I  could  not  well  make  out. 
But  everybody  said,"  quoth  he, 
"  That  'twas  a  famous  victory. 


52 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


"  My  father  lived  at  Blenheim  then, 
Yon  little  stream  hard  by  ; 
They  burnt  his  dwelling  to  the  ground, 

And  he  was  forced  to  fly  ; 
So  with  his  wife  and  child  he  fled, 
Nor  had  he  where  to  rest  his  head, 

"With  fire  and  sword  the  country  round 

Was  wasted  far  and  wide, 
And  many  a  childing  mother  then 

And  newborn  baby  died  ; 
But  things  like  that,  you  know,  must  be 
At  every  famous  victory. 

"They  say  it  was  a  shocking  sight 

After  the  field  was  won  ; 
For  many  thousand  bodies  here 

Lay  rotting  in  the  sun ; 
But  things  like  that,  you  know,  must  be 
After  a  famous  victory. 

"  Great  praise  the  Duke  of  Marlbro'  won, 
And  our  good  Prince  Eugene." 

"Why  'twas  a  very  wicked  thing  !" 
Said  little  Wilhelmine. 

"  Nay,  nay,  my  little  girl,"  quoth  he, 

"  It  was  a  famous  victory. 

"And  everybody  praised  the  Duke 

Who  this  great  fight  did  win." 
"  But  what  good  came  of  it  at  last?" 

Quoth  little  Peterkin. 
"  Why,  that  I  cannot  tell,"  said  he, 
"  But  'twas  a  famous  victory." 

Robert  Southey. 


ALONZO  THE   BRAVE  AND   THE    FAIR 
IMOGINE. 


(3 


WARRIOR  so  bold,  and  a  virgin  so  bright. 
Conversed  as  they  sat  on  the  green  ; 
They  gazed  on  each  other  with  tender  delight : 
Alonzo  the  Brave  was  the  name  of  the  knight — 
The  maiden's,  the  Fair  Imogine, 

"And,  oh  !"  said  the  youth,  "since  to-morrow  I  go 

To  fight  in  a  far  distant  land, 
Your  tears  for  my  absence  soon  ceasing  to  flow. 
Some  other  will  court  you,  and  you  will  bestow 

On  a  wealthier  suitor  your  hand  !" 

"  Oh  !  hush  these  suspicions,"  Fair  Imogine  said, 

"  Offensive  to  love  and  to  me  ; 
For,  if  you  be  living,  or  if  you  be  dead, 
I  swear  by  the  Virgin  that  none  in  your  stead 

Shall  husband  of  Imogine  be. 

"  If  e'er  I,  by  lust  or  by  wealth  led  aside. 

Forget  my  Alonzo  the  Brave, 
God  grant  that,  to  punish  my  falsehood  and  pride. 
Your  ghost  at  the  marriage  may  sit  by  my  side, 
May  tax  me  witli  peijury,  claim  me  as  bride, 

And  bear  me  away  to  the  grave  !" 


To  Palestine  hasten'd  the  hero  so  bold, 

His  love  she  lamented  him  sore  ; 
But  scarce  had  a  twelvemonth  elapsed,  when,  behold ! 
A  baron,  all  cover'd  with  jewels  and  gold. 

Arrived  at  Fair  Imog^ne's  door. 

His  treasures,  his  presents,  his  spacious  domain, 

Soon  made  her  untrue  to  her  vows  ; 
He  dazzled  her  eyes,  he  bewilder'd  her  brain  ; 
He  caught  her  affections,  so  light  and  so  vain, 

And  carried  her  home  as  his  spouse. 

And  now  had  the  marriage  been  blest  by  the  priest ; 

The  revelry  now  was  begun  ; 
The  tables  they  groan'd  with  the  weight  of  the  feast, 
Nor  yet  had  the  laughter  and  merriment  ceased, 

When  the  bell  at  the  castle  toU'd — one. 

Then  first  with  amazement  Fair  Imogine  found, 

A  stranger  was  placed  by  her  side  : 
His  air  was  terrific  ;  he  utter' d  no  sound — 
He  spake  not,  he  moved  not,  he  look'd  not  around — 

But  earnestly  gazed  on  the  bride. 

His  vizor  was  closed,  and  gigantic  his  height, 

His  armor  was  sable  to  view ; 
All  pleasure  and  laughter  were  hush'd  at  his  sight ; 
The  dogs,  as  they  eyed  him,  drew  back  in  affright ; 

The  lights  in  tlie  chamber  burn'd  blue  ! 

His  presence  all  bosoms  appear'd  to  dismay ; 

The  guests  sat  in  silence  and  fear ; 
At  length  spake  the  bride — while  she  trembled — "  I 

pray 
Sir  knight,  that  your  helmet  aside  you  would  lay, 

And  deign  to  partake  of  our  cheer." 

The  lady  is  silent ;  the  stranger  complies — 

His  vizor  he  slowly  unclosed  ; 
Oh,  God  !  what  a  sight  met  Fair  Imogine's  eyes  ! 
What  words  can  express  her  dismay  and  surprise 

When  a  skeleton's  head  was  exposed  ! 

All  present  then  utter'd  a  terrified  shout, 
All  tum'd  with  disgust  from  the  scene  ; 

The  worms  they  crept  in,  and  the  worms  they  crept 
out. 

And  sported  his  eyes  and  his  temples  about, 
While  the  spectre  address'd  Imogine  : 

'  Behold  me,  thou  false  one,  behold  me  !"  he  cried, 
"  Remember  Alonzo  the  Brave  ! 
God  grants  that,  to  punish  thy  falsehood  and  pride. 
My  ghost  at  thy  marriage  should  sit  by  thy  side  ; 
Should  tax  thee  with  perjury,  claim  thee  as  bride. 
And  bear  thee  away  to  the  grave  !" 

Thus  saying,  his  arms  round  the  lady  he  wound, 
While  loudly  she  shriek'd  in  dismay  ; 

Then  sunk  with  his  prey  through  the  wide-yawning 
ground, 

Nor  ever  again  was  Fair  Imogine  found 
Or  the  spectre  that  bore  her  away. 


NARRATIVES  AND   BALLADS. 


63 


Not  long  lived  the  baron  ;  and  none,  since  that  time, 

To  inhabit  the  castle  presume  ; 
For  chronicles  tell  that,  by  order  sublime. 
There  Imogine  suffers  the  pain  of  her  crime, 

And  mourns  her  deplorable  doom. 

At  midnight,  four  times  in  each  year  does  her  sprite. 

When  mortals  in  slumber  are  bound, 
Array'd  in  her  bridal  apparel  of  white,  . 
Appear  in  the  hall  with  the  skeleton  knight, 

And  shriek  as  he  whirls  her  around  ! 

While  they  drink  out  of  skulls  newly  torn  from  the 
grave, 
Dancing  round  them  the  spectres  are  seen ; 
Their  liquor  is  blood,  and  this  horrible  stave 
They  howl :  "  To  the  health  of  Alonzo  the  Brave, 
And  his  consort,  the  Fair  Imogine  !" 

Matthew  Gregory  Lewis. 


OLD  GRIMES. 

LD  Grimes  is  dead,  that  good  old  man — 
We  ne'er  shall  see  him  more  ; 
He  used  to  wear  a  long  black  coat. 
All  buttoned  down  before. 

His  heart  was  open  as  the  day, 

His  feelings  all  were  true ; 
His  hair  was  some  inclined  to  gray — 

He  wore  it  in  a  queue. 

Whene'er  he  heard  the  voice  of  pain, 
His  breast  with  pity  burned  ; 

The  large  round  head  upon  his  cane 
From  ivory  was  turned. 

Kind  words  he  ever  had  for  all ; 

He  knew  no  base  design ; 
His  eyes  were  dark  and  rather  small. 

His  nose  was  aquiline. 

He  lived  at  peace  with  all  mankind. 

In  friendship  he  was  true  ; 
His  coat  had  pocket-holes  behind, 

His  pantaloons  were  blue. 

Unharmed,  the  sin  which  earth  pollutes 

He  passed  securely  o'er, 
And  never  wore  a  pair  o'  boots 

For  thirty  years  or  more. 

But  good  Old  Grimes  is  now  at  rest, 
Nor  fears  misfortune's  frown ; 

He  wore  a  double-breasted  vest — 
The  stripes  ran  up  and  down. 

He  modest  merit  sought  to  find. 

And  pay  it  its  desert ; 
He  had  no  malice  in  his  mind. 

No  ruffles  on  his  shirt. 


His  neighbors  he  did  not  abuse — 

Was  sociable  and  gay ; 
He  wore  large  buckles  on  his  shoes, 

And  changed  them  every  day. 

His  knowledge,  hid  from  public  gaze, 

He  did  not  bring  to  view. 
Nor  make  a  noise  town-meeting  days. 

As  many  people  do. 

His  worldly  goods  he  never  threw 

In  trust  to  fortune's  chances, 
But  lived  (as  all  his  brothers  do) 

In  easy  circumstances. 

Thus  undisturbed  by  anxious  cares 

His  peaceful  moments  ran ; 
And  everybody  said  he  was 

A  fine  old  gentleman. 

Albert  G.  Greene. 


THE  SLEEPING  SENTINEL. 

The  incidents  liere  woven  into  verse  relate  to  William  Scott,  a 
young  soldier  from  the  Slate  of  Vermont,  who,  while  on  duty  as  a 
seniinel  at  night,  fell  asleep,  and,  having  been  condemned  to  die, 
was  pardoned  by  the  President.  They  form  a  brief  record  of  his 
humble  life  at  home  and  in  the  field,  and  of  his  glorious  death. 

f  Vj    "WAS  in  the  sultry  summer-time,  as  war's  red 
records  show, 
When  patriot  armies  rose  to  meet  a  fratri- 
'^  cidal  foe — 

When,  from  the  North  and  East  and  West,  like  the  up- 
heaving sea, 
Swept  forth  Columbia's  sons,  to  make  our  country 
truly  free. 

Within  a  prison's  dismal  walls,  where  shadows  veiled 

decay — 
In  fetters,  on  a  heap  of  straw,  a  youthful  soldier  lay; 
Heart-broken,   hopeless,   and  forlorn,  with  short  and 

feverish  breath. 
He  waited  but  the  appointed  hour  to  die  a  culprit's 

death. 

Yet,  but  a  few  brief  weeks  before,  untroubled  with  a 
care, 

He  roamed  at  will,  and  freely  drew  his  native  moun- 
tain air — 

Where  sparkling  streams  leap  mossy  rocks,  from  many 
a  woodland  font, 

And  waving  elms,  and  g^rassy  slopes,  give  beauty  to 
Vermont 

Where,  dwelling  in  a  humble  cot,  a  tiller  of  the  soil — 
Encircled  by  a  mother's   love,    he  sliared  a  father's 

toil- 
Till,  borne  upon  the  wailing  winds,  his  suffering  coun- 
try's cry 
Fired  his  young  heart  with  fervent  zeal,  for  her  to  live 
or  die ; 


64 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


Then  left  he  all :  a  few  fond  tears,  by  firmness  half  con- 
cealed, 

A  blessing,  and  a  parting  prayer,  and  he  was  in  the 
field - 

The  field  of  strife,  whose  dews  are  blood,  whose  breezes 
war's  hot  breath, 

Whose  fruits  are  garnered  in  the  grave,  whose  hus- 
bandman is  death ! 

Without  a  murmur,  he  endured  a  service  new  and 

hard; 
But,  wearied  with  a  toilsome  march,  it  chanced  one 

night,  on  guard, 
He  sank,  exhausted,  at  his  post,  and  the  gray  morning 

found 
His  prostrate  form — a  sentinel  asleep  upon  the  ground. 

So  in  the  silence  of  the  night,  aweary,  on  the  sod. 
Sank  the  disciples,  watching  near  the  suffenng  Son  of 

God; 
Yet,  Jesus,  with  compassion  moved,  beheld  their  heavy 

eyes, 
And  though  betray'd  to  ruthless  foes,  forgiving,  bade 

them  rise. 

But  God  is  love — and  finite  minds  can  faintly  com- 
prehend 

How  gentle  mercy,  in  His  rule,  may  with  stern  justice 
blend ; 

And  this  poor  soldier,  seized  and  bound,  found  none 
to  justify, 

While  war's  inexhorable  law  decreed  that  he  must  die. 

'Twas  night. — In  a  secluded  room,  with  measured 
tread,  and  slow, 

A  statesman  of  commanding  mien  paced  gravely  to 
and  fro ; 

Oppressed,  he  pondered  on  a  land  by  civil  discord 
rent ; 

On  brothers  armed  in  deadly  strife : — it  was  the  Presi- 
dent. 

The  woes  of  thirty  millions  filled  his  burdened  heart 

with  grief. 
Embattled  hosts,  on  land  and  sea,  acknowledged  him 

their  chief ; 
And  yet,  amid  the  din  of  war,  he  heard  the  plaintive 

cry 
Of  that  poor  soldier,  as  he  lay  in  prison,  doomed  to  die. 

'Twas  morning. — On  a  tented  field,  and  through  the 

heated  haze, 
Flashed  back,  from  lines  of  burnished  arms,  the  sun's 

effulgent  blaze  ; 
While,   from  a   sombre  prison-house,  seen  slowly  to 

emerge 
A  sad  procession,  o'er  the  sward,  moved  to  a  muffled 

dirge. 


And  in  the  midst,  with  faltering  steps,  and  pale  and 

anxious  face, 
In  manacles,  between  two  guards,  a  soldier  had  his 

place, 
A  youth— led  out  to  die ;— and  yet,  it  was  not  death, 

but  shame 
That  smote  his  gallant  heart  with  dread,  and  .shook  his 

manly  Irame. 

Still  on,  before  the  marshall'd  ranks,  the  train  pursued 

its  way 
Up  to  the  designated  spot,  whereon  a  coffin  lay— 
His  coffin;  and  with  reeling  brain,  despainng — deso- 
late- 
He  togk  his  station  by  its  side,  abandoned  to  his  fate. 

Then  came  across  his  wavering  sight  strange  pictures  in 
the  air ; 

He  saw  his  distant  mountain  home ;  he  saw  his  mother 

there; 
He  saw  his  father  bowed  in  grief,  thro'  fast-dechnmg 

years; 
He  saw  a  nameless  grave  ;  and  then,  the  vision  closed 

— in  tears. 

Yet  once  again.     In  double  file  advancing,  then,  he 

saw 
Twelve  comrades  sternly   set  apart  to  execute  the 

law  — 
But  saw  no  more  ;  his  senses  swam — deep  darkness 

settled  round — 
And,  shuddering,  he  awaited  now  the  fatal  volley's 

sound. 

Then  suddenly  was  heard  the  noise  of  steed  and 
wheels  approach. 

And,  rolling  through  a  cloud  of  dust,  appeared  a 
stately  coach. 

On,  past  the  guards,  and  through  the  field,  its  rapid 
course  was  bent. 

Till,  halting,  'mid  the  lines  was  .seen  the  nation's  Presi- 
dent. 

He  came  to  save  that  stricken  soul,  now  waking  from 
despair  ; 

And  from  a  thousand  voices  rose  a  shout  which  rent 
the  air ; 

The  pardoned  soldier  understood  the  tones  of  jubi- 
lee. 

And,  bounding  from  his  fetters,  blessed  the  hand  that 
made  him  free. 

'Twas  spring — within  a  verdant  vale,  where  War- 
wick's crystal  tide 

Reflected,  o'er  its  peaceful  breast,  fair  fields  on  either 
side^ 

Where  birds  and  flowers  combined  to  cheer  a  sylvan 
solitude — 

Two  threatening  armies,  face  to  face,  in  fierce  defi- 
ance stood. 


NARRATIVES  AND   BALLADS. 


55 


Two  threatening  armies  '    One  invoked  by  injured 

Liberty — 
Which  bore  above  its  patriot  ranlcs  the  Symbol  of  the 

Free  ; 
And  one,  a  rebel  horde,  beneath  a   flaunting  flag  of 

bars, 
A  fragment,  torn  by  traitorous  hands,  from  Freedom's 

Stripes  and  Stars. 

A  sudden  shock  which  shook  the  earth,  'mid  vapor 

dense  and  dun, 
Proclaimed,  along  the  echoing  hills,  the  conflict  had 

begun ; 
And  shot  and  shell,  athwart  the  stream  with  fiendish 

fury  sped. 
To  strew  among  the  living  lines  the  dying  and  the 

dead. 

Then,  louder  than  the  roaring  storm,  pealed  forth  the 

stern  command, 
"  Charge  I  soldiers,  charge!"  and,  at  the  word,  with 

shouts,  a  fearless  band. 
Two  hundred  heroes  from  Vermont,  rushed  onward, 

through  the  flood. 
And  upward  o'er  the  rising  ground,  they  marked  their 

way  in  blood. 

The  smitten  foe  before  them  fled,  in  terror,  from  his 

post — 
While,  unsustained,  two  hundred  stood,  to  battle  with 

a  host ' 
Then  turning  as  the  rallymg  ranks,  with  murd'rous 

fire  replied. 
They  bore  the  fallen  o'er  the  field,  and  through  the 

purple  tide. 

The  fallen  !  And  the  first  who  fell  in  that  unequal 

strife. 
Was  he  whom  mercy  sped  to  save  when  j  ustice  claimed 

his  life— 
The  pardon'd  soldier '    And  while  yet  the  conflict 

raged  around, 
While  yet  his  life-blood  ebbed  away  through  every 

gaping  wound — 

While  yet  his  voice  grew  tremulous,  and  death  be- 

dimmed  his  eye — 
He  called  his  comrades  to  attest  he  had  not  feared  to 

die  ; 
And  in  his  last  expiring  breath,  a  prayer  to  heaven 

was  sent. 
That  God.  with  His  unfailing  grace,  would  bless  our 

President. 

Francis  De  Haes  Janvier. 


THE  PIED  PIPER  OF  HAMELlN. 

AMELIN  Town's  in  Brunswick. 
By  famous  Hanover  City  ; 
The  river  Weser,  deep  and  wide, 
Washes  its  wall  on  the  southeni  side  , 


A  pleasanter  spot  you  never  spied. 
But  when  begins  my  ditty, 
Almost  five  hundred  years  ago, 
To  see  the  townsfolk  suffer  so 
From  vermin  was  a  pity. 

Rats! 
They  fought  the  dogs,  and  killed  the  cats, 
And  bit  the  babies  in  tlie  cradles, 
And  ate  the  cheeses  out  of  the  vats, 
And  licked  the  soup  from  the  cook's  own  ladles. 
Split  open  the  kegs  of  salted  sprats, 
Made  nests  inside  men's  Sunday  hats, 
And  even  spoiled  the  women's  chats. 
By  drowning  their  speaking 
With  shrieking  and  squeaking 
In  fifty  different  sharps  and  flats. 

At  last  the  people  in  a  body 

To  the  Town  Hall  came  flocking : 

"  'Tis  clear,"  cried  they,  "  our  Mayor's  a  noddy ; 

And  as  for  our  Corporation — shocking 
To  think  we  buy  gowns  lined  with  ermine 
For  dolts  that  can't  or  won't  determine 
What's  best  to  nd  us  of  our  vermin  !" 
At  this  the  Mayor  and  Corporation 
Quaked  with  a  mighty  consternation. 


An  hour  they  sate  in  council — 

At  length  the  Mayor  broke  silence : 
"  For  a  guilder  I'd  my  ermine  gown  sell ; 
I  wish  I  were  a  mile  hence  ! 
It's  easy  to  bid  one  rack  one's  brain — 
I'm  sure  my  poor  head  aches  again, 
I've  scratched  it  so,  and  all  in  vain. 

0  for  a  trap,  a  trap,  a  trap !" 

Just  as  he  said  this,  what  should  hap 

At  the  chamber  door  but  a  gentle  tap  ? 

"  Bless  us,"  cried  the  Mayor,  "  what's  that?" 

"  Come  in  !" — ^the  Mayor  cried,  looking  bigger  ; 

And  in  did  come  the  strangest  figure  \ 

He  advanced  to  the  council-table  ; 

And,  "  Please  your  honor,"  said  he,  "I'm  able. 

By  means  of  a  secret  charm,  to  draw 

All  creatures  living  beneath  the  sun, 

That  creep  or  swim  or  fly  or  run. 

After  me  so  as  you  never  saw ' 

Yet,"  said  he,  "  poor  piper  as  I  am. 

In  Tartary  I  freed  the  Cham, 

Last  June,  from  his  huge  swann  of  gnats ; 

1  eased  in  Asia  the  Nizam 

Of  a  monstrous  brood  of  vampire-bats  ; 

And  as  for  what  your  brain  bewilders — 

If  I  can  rid  your  town  of  rats. 

Will  you  give  me  a  thousand  guilders  ?" 

"  One?  fifty  thousand !"  was  the  exclamation 

Oi  the  astonished  Mayor  and  Corporation. 


56 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


Into  the  street  the  piper  stept, 

Smiling  first  a  little  smile, 
As  if  he  knew  \vh::t  magic  slept 
In  his  quiet  pipe  the  while  ; 

Then,  like  a  musical  adept, 
To  blow  the  pipe  his  lips  he  wrinkled. 
And  green  and  blue  his  sharp  eyes  twinkled, 
Like  a  candle  flame  wliere  salt  is  sprinkled  ; 
And  ere  three  shrill  notes  the  pipe  uttered. 
You  heard  as  if  an  army  muttered  ; 
And  the  muttering  grew  to  a  grumbling  ; 
And  the  grumbling  grew  to  a  mighty  rumbling ; 
And  out  of  the  houses  the  rats  came  tumbling. 
Great  rats,  small  rats,  lean  rats,  brawny  rats, 
Brown  rats,  black  rats,  gray  rats,  tawny  rats, 
Grave  old  plodders,  gay  young  friskers, 

Fathers,  mothers,  uncles,  cousins, 
Cocking  tails  and  pricking  whiskers  ; 

Families  by  tens  and  dozens, 
Brothers,  sisters,  husbands,  wives — 
Followed  the  piper  for  their  lives. 
From  street  to  street  he  piped  advancing, 
And  step  for  step  they  followed  dancing, 
Until  they  came  to  the  river  Weser, 
Wherein  all  plunged  and  perished 
Save  one  who,  stout  as  Julius  Caesar, 
Swam  across  and  lived  to  carry 
(As  he  the  manuscript  he  cherished) 
To  Rat-land  home  his  commentary. 
Which  was  :  "At  the  first  shrill  notes  of  the  pipe, 
I  heard  a  sound  as  of  scraping  tripe. 
And  putting  apples,  wondrous  ripe. 
Into  a  cider-press's  gripe — 
And  a  moving  away  of  pickle-tub  boards, 
And  a  leaving  ajar  of  conser\'e-cupboards. 
And  a  drawing  the  corks  of  train-oil  flasks, 
And  a  breaking  the  hoops  of  butter-casks ; 
And  it  seemed  as  if  a  voice 
(Sweeter  far  than  by  harp  or  by  psaltery 
Is  breathed)  called  out,  "  O  rats,  rejoice  ! 
The  world  is  grown  to  one  vast  drysaltery  ! 
So  munch  on,  crunch  on,  take  your  nuncheon, 
Breakfast,  supper,  dinner,  luncheon  ! 
And  just  as  a  bulky  sugar-puncheon. 
Already  staved,  like  a  great  sun  shone 
Glorious  scarce  an  inch  before  me, 
)ust  as  methought  it  said,  '  Come,  bore  me  !  '— 
I  found  the  Weser  rolling  o'er  me." 
You  should  have  heard  the  Hamelin  people 
Ringing  the  bells  till  they  rocked  the  steeple  ; 
"  Go,"  cried  the  Mayor,  "and  get  long  poles  ! 
Poke  out  the  nests  and  block  up  the  holes  ! 
Consult  with  carpenters  and  builders, 
And  leave  in  our  town  not  even  a  trace 
Of  the  rats  !" — when  suddenly,  up  the  face 
Of  the  piper  perked  in  the  market  place, 
Witli  a  "First  if  you  please,  my  thousand  guilders  !" 
A  thousand  guilders  !  the  Mayor  looked  blue  ; 
So  did  the  Corporation  too. 


To  pay  this  sum  to  a  wandering  fellow 

With  a  gypsy  coat  of  red  and  yellow !  < 

"  Beside,"  quoth  the  Mayor,  with  a  knowing  wink, 

"  Our  business  was  done  at  the  river's  brink  ; 

We  saw  with  our  eyes  the  vermin  sink, 

And  what's  dead  can't  come  to  life,  I  think. 

So,  friend,  we're  not  the  folks  to  shrink 

From  the  duty  of  giving  you  something  to  drink, 

And  a  matter  of  money  to  put  in  your  poke ; 

But  as  for  the  guilders,  what  we  spoke 

Of  them,  as  you  very  well  .know,  was  in  joke. 

Beside,  our  losses  have  made  us  thrifty ;    ■ 

A  thousand  guilders  !    Come,  take  fifty  I" 

The  piper's  face  fell,  and  he  cried, 
"  No  trifling  1     I  can't  wait !  beside, 
I've  promised  to  visit  by  dinner  time 
Bagdat,  and  accept  the  prime 
Of  the  head  cook's  pottage,  all  he's  rich  in. 
For  having  left,  in  the  Caliph's  kitchen, 
Of  a  nest  of  scorpions  no  survivor — 
With  him  I  proved  no  bargain-driver ; 
With  you,  don't  think  I'll  bate  a  stiver ! 
And  folks  who  put  me  in  a  passion 
May  find  me  pipe  to  another  fashion." 

"  How?"  cried  the  Mayor,  "d'  ye  think  I'll  brook 

Being  worse  treated  than  a  cook  ? 

Insulted  by  a  lazy  ribald 

With  idle  pipe  and  vesture  piebald  ? 

You  threaten  us,  fellow  ?    Do  your  worst, 

Blow  your  pipe  there  till  you  burst  I" 

Once  more  he  stept  into  the  street ; 

And  to  his  lips  again 
Laid  his  long  pipe  of  smooth,  straight  cane  ; 

And  ere  he  blew  three  notes  (such  sweet, 
Soft  notes  as  yet  musician's  cunning 

Never  gave  the  enraptured  air) 
There  was  a  rustling  that  seemed  like  a  bustling 
Of  merry  crowds  justling  at  pitching  and  hustling ; 
Small  feet  were  pattering,  wooden  shoes  clattering, 
Little  hands  clapping,  and  little  tongues  chattering  ; 
And,    like    fowls   in    a   farm-yard  when   barley  is 

scattering. 
Out  came  the  children  running  : 
All  the  little  boys  and  girls. 
With  rosy  cheeks  and  flaxen  curls, 
And  sparkling  eyes  and  teeth  like  pearls. 
Tripping  and  skipping,  ran  merrily  after 
The  wonderful  music  with  shouting  and  laughter. 

The  Mayor  was  dumb,  and  the  Council  stood 

As  if  they  were  changed  into  blocks  of  wood, 

Unable  to  move  a  step,  or  cry 

To  the  children  merrily  skipping  by. 

And  could  only  follow  with  the  eye 

That  joyous  crowd  at  the  piper's  back. 

But  how  the  Mayor  was  on  the  rack. 

And  the  wretched  Council's  bosoms  beat 


NARRATIVES  AND  BALLADS. 


67 


As  the  piper  turned  from  the  High  street 

To  where  the  Weser  rolled  its  waters 

Right  in  the  way  of  their  sons  and  daughters  ! 

However,  he  turned  from  south  to  west, 

And  to  Koppelberg  Hill  his  steps  addressed, 

And  after  him  the  children  pressed  ; 

Great  was  the  joy  in  every  breast. 

"  He  never  can  cross  that  mighty  top ! 

He's  forced  to  let  the  piping  drop, 

And  we  shall  see  our  children  stop  !" 

When  lo,  as  they  reached  the  mountain's  side, 

A  wondrous  portal  opened  wide, 

As  if  a  cavern  was  suddenly  hollowed  ; 

And  the  piper  advanced  and  the  children  followed  ; 

And  when  all  were  in,  to  the  very  last. 

The  door  in  the  mountain-side  shut  fast. 

Did  I  say  all  ?     No  !     One  was  lame, 

And  could  not  dance  the  whole  of  the  way ; 

And  in  after  years,  if  you  would  blame 

His  sadness,  he  was  used  to  say, 

"  It's  dull  in  our  town  since  my  playmates  left, 

I  can't  forget  that  I'm  bereft 

Of  all  the  pleasant  sights  they  see, 

Which  the  piper  also  promised  me  ; 

For  he  led  us,  he  said,  to  a  joyous  land, 

Joining  the  town  and  just  at  hand, 

Where  waters  gushed  and  fruit-trees  grew, 

And  flowers  put  forth  a  fairer  hue. 

And  everything  was  strange  and  new  ; 

The  sparrows  were  brighter  than  peacocks  here, 

And  their  dogs  outran  our  fallow  deer, 

And  honey-bees  had  lost  their  stmgs. 

And  horses  were  born  with  eagles'  wings  , 

And  just  as  I  became  assured 

My  lame  foot  would  be  speedily  cured, 

The  music  stopped  and  I  stood  still. 

And  found  myself  outside  the  Hill, 

Left  alone  against  my  will. 

To  go  now  limping  as  before, 

And  never  hear  of  that  country  more  !" 

Robert  Browning. 


HOW  THEY  BROUGHT  THE  GOOD  NEWS 
FROM  GHENT  TO  AIX. 

SPRANG  to  the  stirrup,,  and  Joris  and  he  ; 
•^*     I  galloped,    Dirck  galloped,    we    galloped  all 
three  ; 
'  Good  speed  ! "  cried  the  watch  as  the  gate-bolts 
undrew, 
"Speed  !  "  echoed  the  wall  to  us  galloping  through  ; 
Behind  shut  the  postern,  the  lights  sank  to  rest. 
And  into  the  midnight  we  galloped  abreast. 

Not  a  word  to  each  other :  we  kept  the  great  pace 
Neck  and  neck,  stride  by  stride,  never  changing  our 
place. 


I  turned  in  my  saddle  and  made  its  girths  tight, 
Then  shortened  each  stirrup  and  set  the  pique  right. 
Re-buckled  the  check-strap,  chained  slacker  the  bit ; 
Nor  galloped  less  steadily  Roland  a  whit. 

'Twas  moonset  at  starting,  but  while  we  drew  near 
Lokeren,  the  cocks  crew,  and  twilight  dawned  clear ; 
At  Boom,  a  great  yellow  star  came  out  to  see, 
At  Diiffeld,  'twas  morning  as  plain  as  could  be  ; 
And  from  Mecheln  church-steeple  we  heard  the  half 

chime ; 
So  Joris  broke  silence  with  '*  Yet  there  is  time." 

At  Aerschot,  up  leaped  of  a  sudden  the  sun, 
And  against  him  the  cattle  stood  black  every  one 
To  stare  through  the  mist  at  us  galloping  past. 
And  I  saw  my  stout  galloper,  Roland,  at  last, 
With  resolute  shoulders  each  butting  away 
The  haze,  as  some  bluff  river  headland  its  spray. 

And  his  low  head  and  crest,  just  one  sharp  ear  bent 

back 
For  my  voice,  and  the  other  pricked  out  on  his  track; 
And  one  eye's  black  intelligence — ever  that  glance 
O'er  its  white  edge  at  me,  its  own  master,  askance  ! 
And  the  thick  heavy  spume-fliakes,  which  aye  and 

anon 
His  fierce  lips  shook  upwards  in  galloping  on. 

By  Hasselt,  Dirck  groaned,  and  cried  Joris,  "Stay 

spur ' 
Your  Roos  galloped  bravely,  the  fault's  not  in  her. 
We'll  remember  at  Aix  ;  " — for  one  heard  the  quick 

wheeze 
Of  her  chest,  saw  the  stretched  neck  and  staggering 

knees. 
And  sunk  tail,  and  horrible  heave  of  the  flank, 
As  down  on  her  haunches  she  shuddered  and  sank. 

So  we  were  left  galloping,  Joris  and  I, 
Past  Looz  and  past  Tongres,  no  cloud  in  the  sky  ; 
The  broad  sun  above  laughed  a  pitiless  laugh, 
'Neath  our  feet  broke  the  brittle  bright  stubble  like 

chaff; 
Till  over  by  Dalhelm  a  dome-spire  sprang  white, 
And  "Gallop,"  gasped  Joris,  "  for  Aix  is  'n  sight  I  " 

"  How  they'll  greet  us  !  " — and  all  in  a  moment  h's 

roan 
Rolled  neck  and  croup  over,  lay  dead  as  a  stone. 
And  there  was  my  Roland  to  bear  the  whole  weight 
Of  the  news  which  alone  could  save  Aix  from  her 

fate, 
With  his  nostrils  like  pits  full  of  blood  to  the  brim. 
And  with  circles  of  red  for  his  eye-sockets  rim. 

Then  I  cast  loose  my  buff  coat,  each  holster  let  fall. 
Shook  off  both  my  jack-boots,  let  go  belt  and  all. 
Stood  up  in  the  stirrup,  leaned,  patted  his  ear, 
Called  my  Roland  his  pet  name,  my  horse  without 
I>eer ; 


68 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


Clapped  my  hands,  laughed  and  sang,  any  noise  bad 

or  good. 
Till  at  length  into  Aix  Roland  galloped  and  stood. 

And  all  I  remember,  is  friends  flocking  round, 

As  I  sate  with   his  head  'twixt  my    knees    on  the 

ground,  ■,  ■ 

And  no  voice  but  was  praising  this  Roland  of  mine. 
As  I  poured  down  his  throat  our  last  measures  of 

wine, 
Which,  (the  burgesses  voted  by  common  consent,) 
Was  no  more  than  his  due  who  brought  good  news 

from  Ghent. 

Robert  Browning. 


CURFEW    MUST  NOT   RING  TO-NIGHT. 

■  LOWLY  England's  sun  was  settmg  o'er  the  hill- 
tops far  away, 
Filling  all  the  land  with  beauty  at  the  close  of 
one  sad  day. 
And  the  last  rays  kissed  the  forehead  of  a  man  and 

maiden  fair — 
He  with  footsteps  slow  and  weary,   she  with  sunny 

floating  hair ; 
He  with  bowed  head,  sad  and  thoughtful,  she  with  lips 

all  cold  and  white. 
Struggling  to  keep  back  the  murmur — 

"Curfew  must  not  ring  to-night." 

''Sexton,"  Bessie's  white  lips  faltered,  pointing  to  the 

prison  old. 
With  its  turrets  tall  and  gloomy,  with  its  walls  dark, 

damp  and  cold, 
"  I've  a  lover  in  that  prison,  doomed  this  very  night  to 

die, 
At  the  ringing  of  the  Curfew,  and  no  earthly  help  is 

nigh  • 
Cromwell  will  not  come  till  sunset,"  and  her  lips  grew 

strangely  white 
As  she  breathed  the  husky  whisper  • — 

"  Curiew  must  not  ring  to-night." 

*'  Bessie, ' '  calmly  spoke  the  sexton — every  word  pierced 

her  young  heart 
Like  the  piercing  of  an  arrow,  like  a  deadly  poisoned 

dart— 
"Long,   long  years  I've  rung  the  Curfew  from  that 

gloomy,  shadowed  tower , 
Every  evening,  just  at  sunset,  it  has  told  the  twilight 

hour; 
I  have  done  my  duty  ever,  tried  to  do  it  just  and  right, 
Now  I'm  old  I  will  not  falter — 

Curfew,  it  must  ring  to-night." 

Wild  her  eyes  and  pale  her  features,  stern  and  white 

her  thoughtful  brow, 
As  within  her  secret  bosom  Bessie  made  a  solemn  vow. 
She  had  listened  while  the  judges  read  without  a  tear  or 

sigh: 


"At  the  ringing  of  the  Curfew,  Basil  Underwood  must 

die." 
And  her  breath  came  fast  and  faster,  and  her  eyes 

grew  large  and  bright ; 
In  an  undertone  she  murmured : — 

"Curfew  must  not  ring  to-night," 

With  quick  step  she  bounded  forward,  sprung  within 

the  old  church  door. 
Left  the  old  man  threading  slowly  paths  so  oft  he'd 

trod  before ; 
Not  one  moment  paused  the  maiden,  but  with  eye  and 

cheek  aglow 
Mounted  up  the  gloomy  tower,  where  the  bell  swung 

to  and  fro. 
As  she  climbed  the  dusty  ladder  on  which  fell  no  ray 

©flight, 
Up  and  up— her  white  lips  saying : — 

"  Curfew  must  not  ring  to-night." 

She  has  reached  the  topmost  ladder:  o'er  her  hangs 

the  great,  dark  bell ; 
Awful  is  the  gloom  beneath  her,  like  the  pathway  down 

to  helL 
Lo,  the  ponderous  tongue  is  swinging— 'tis  the  hour  of 

Curfew  now. 
And  the  sight  has  chilled  her  bosom,   stopped   her 

breath,  and  paled  her  brow. 
Shall  she  let  it  ring  ?    No,  never  I  flash  her  eyes  with 

sudden  light. 
As  she  springs,  and  grasps  it  firmly — 

"Curfew  shall  not  ring  to-night  I " 

Out  she  swung — far  out  •  the  city  seemed  a  speck  of 

light  below. 
There  'twixt  heaven  and  earth  suspended  as  the  bell 

swung  to  and  fro. 
And  the  sexton  at  the  bell-rope,  old  and  deaf,  heard 

not  the  bell, 
Sadly  thought,    "That    twilight    Curfew  rang  young 

Basil's    uneral  knell." 
Still  the  maiden  clung  more  firmly,  and  with  trembling 

lips  so  white. 
Said  to  hush  her  heart's  wild  throbbing  :— 
"Curfew shall  not  ring  to  night" 

It  was  o'er,  the  bell  ceased  swaying,  and  the  maiden 

stepped  once  more 
Firmly  on  the  dark  old  ladder  where  for  hundred  years 

before  , 
Human  foot  had  not  been  planted.     The  brave  deed 

that  she  had  done 
Should  be  told  long  ages  after,  as  the  rays  of  setting 

sun 
Cnmson  all  the   sky  with  beauty;   aged  sires,  with 

heads  of  white, 
Tell  the  eager,  listening  children. 

"Curfew  did  not  ring  that  night " 


NARRATIVES  AND  BALLADS. 


59 


O'er  the  distant  hills  came  Cromwell ;  Bessie  sees  him, 

and  her  brow, 
Lately  white  with  fear  and  anguish,  has  no  anxious 

traces  now. 
At  his  feet  she  tells  her  story,  shows  her  hands  all 

bruised  and  torn ; 
And  her  face  so  sweet  and  pleading,  yet  with  sorrow 

pale  and  worn, 
Touched  his  heart  with  sudden  pity,  lit  his  eyes  with 

misty  light : 
"Go  !  your  lover  lives,"  said  Cromwell, 

"Curfew  shall  not  ring  to-night.' 

Wide  they  flung  the  massive  portal  ;  led  the  prisoner 
forth  to  die — 

All  his  bright  young  life  before  him.     'Neath  the  dark- 
ening English  sky 

Bessie  comes  with  flying  footsteps,   eyes  aglow  with 
love-light  sweet : 

Kneeling  on  the  turf  beside  him,  lays  his  pardon  at  his 
feet, 

In  his  brave,  strong  arms  he  clasped  her,  kissed  the 
face  upturned  and  white, 

Whispered,  "  Darling,  you  have  saved  me — 
Curfew  will  not  ring  to-night !  " 

Rose  Hartwick  Thorpe. 


THE  MISER  WHO  LOST  HIS  TREASURE. 

'T'S  use  that  constitutes  possession  wholly  ; 
I  ask  those  people  who've  a  passion 
For  heaping  gold  on  gold,   and  saving  solely, 
How  they  excel  the  poorest  man  in  any  fashion? 

Diogenes  is  quite  as  rich  as  they. 

True  misers  live  like  beggars,  people  say  ; 

The  man  with  hidden  treasure  -(Esop  drew 

Is  an  example  of  the  thing  I  mean. 

In  the  next  life  he  might  be  happy,  true  ; 

But  very  little  joy  in  this  he  knew  ; 

By  gold  the  miser  was  so  little  blessed. 

Not  its  possessor,  but  by  it  possessed  ; 

He  buried  it  a  fathom  underground  ; 

His  heart  was  with  it;  his  delight 

To  ruminate  upon  it  day  and  night ; 

A  victim  to  the  altar  ever  bound. 

He  seemed  so  poor,  yet  not  one  hour  forgot 

The  golden  grave,  the  concentrated  spot ; 

Whether  he  goes  or  comes,  or  eats  or  drinks. 

Of  gold,  and  gold  alone,  the  miser  thinks. 

At  last  a  ditcher  marks  his  frequent  walks, 
And  muttering  talks. 

Scents  out  the  place,  and  clears  the  whole. 
Unseen  by  any  spies. 

On  one  fine  day  the  miser  came,  his  soul 

Glowing  with  joy  ;  he  found  the  empty  nest ; 

Burst  into  tears,  and  sobs,  and  cries, 

He  frets,  and  tears  his  thin  gray  hair  ; 

He's  lost  what  he  had  loved  the  best 

A  startled  peasant  passing  there 


Inquires  the  reason  of  his  sighs. 
''  My  gold  !  ftiy  gold  !  they've  stolen  all." 
"  Your  treasure  ?  what  was  it,  and  where  ?" 
"  Why,  buried  underneath  this  stone." 

(A  moan  1)  , 

"Why,  man,  is  this  a  time  of  war? 

Why  should  you  bring  your  gold  so  far? 

Had  you  not  better  much  have  let 

The  wealth  lie  in  a  cabinet, 

Where  you  could  find  it  any  hour 
In  your  own  power  ?" 
"What !  every  hour  ?  a  wise  man  knows 

Gold  comes,  but  slowly,  quickly  goes  ; 

I  never  touched  it."  "  Gracious  me  1". 

Replied  the  other,  "  why,  then,  be 

So  wretched  ?  for  if  you  say  true, 

You  never  touched  it,  plain  the  case  ; 

Put  back  that  stone  upon  the  place, 

'Twill  be  the  very  same  to  you." 

THE  DEATH  OF  NAPOLEON. 

The  fifth  of  May  came  amid  wind  and  rain.  Napoleon's  passing 
spirit  was  deliriously  engaged  in  a  strife  more  terrible  than  the 
elements  around.  The  words  "  tele  d'armee,"  (head  of  the  array,) 
the  last  which  escaped  from  his  lips,  intimated  that  his  thoughts 
were  watching  the  current  of  a  heavy  fight.  About  eleven  minutes 
before  six  in  the  evening,  Napoleon  expired. 

ILD  was  the  night,  yet  a  wilder  night 
Hung  round  the  soldier's  pillow  ; 
In  his  bosom  there  waged  a  fiercer  fight 
Than  the  fight  on  the  wrathful  billow. 

A  few  fond  mourners  were  kneeling  by, 
The  few  th.it  his  stern  heart  cherished  ; 

They  knew,  by  his  glazed  and  unearthly  eye, 
That  life  had  nearly  perished. 

They  knew  by  his  awful  and  kingly  look. 

By  the  order  hastily  spoken, 
That  he  dreamed  of  days  when  the  nations  shook, 

And  the  nations'  hosts  were  broken. 

/ 
He  dreamed  that  the  Frenchman's  sword  still  slew. 

And  triumphed  the  Frenchman's  "eagle  ;" 
And  the  struggling  Austrian  fled  anew, 

Like  the  hare  before  the  beagle. 

The  bearded  Russian  he  scourged  again, 

The  Prussian's  camp  was  routed. 
And  again,  on  the  hills  of  haughty  Spain, 

His  mighty  armies  shouted. 

Over  Egypt's  sands,  over  Alpine  snows. 

At  the  pyramids,  at  the  mountain, 
Where  the  wave  of  the  lordly  Danube  flows. 

And  by  the  Italian  fountain, 

On  the  snowy  cliffs,  where  mountain-streamw 

Dash  by  the  Switzer's  dwelling, 
He  led  again,  in  his  dying  dreams, 

His  hosts,  the  broad  earth  quelling. 


60 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


Again  Marengo's  field  was  won, 

And  Jena's  bloody  battle  ; 
Again  the  world  was  overrun, 

Made  pale  at  his  cannons'  rattle. 

He  died  at  the  close  of  that  darksome  day, 

A  day  that  shall  live  in  story  ; 
In  the  rocky  land  they  placed  his  clay, 

"And  "eft  him  alone  with  his  glory.'' 

Isaac  McLkllan. 


FAITHLESS  NELLY  GRAY. 

EN  BATTLE  was  a  soldier  bold, 
And  used  to  war's  alarms ; 
But  a  cannon-ball  took  off  his  legs, 
So  he  laid  down  his  arms  1 

Now  as  they  bore  him  off  the  field, 

Said  he,  "  Let  others  shoot, 
For  here  I  leave  my  second  leg, 

And  the  Forty-second  Foot !" 

The  army-surgeons  made  him  limbs  : 

Said  he — "  They're  only  pegs  ; 
But  there's  as  wooden  members  quite 

As  represent  my  legs  !" 

Now  Ben  he  loved  a  pretty  maid, 

Her  name  was  Nelly  Gray  ! 
So  he  went  to  pay  her  his  devours 

When  he'd  devoured  his  pay. 

But  when  he  called  on  Nelly  Gray, 

She  made  him  quite  a  scoff; 
And  when  she  saw  his  wooden  legs. 

Began  to  take  them  off ! 

"O  Nelly  Gray  !  O  Nelly  Gray  ! 
Is  this  your  love  so  warm  ? 
The  love  that  loves  a  scarlet  coat. 
Should  be  more  uniform  !" 

Said  she,  "  I  loved  a  soldier  once, 

For  he  was  blithe  and  brave  ; 
But  I  will  never  have  a  man 

With  both  legs  in  the  grave  ! 

"  Before  you  had  those  timber  toes. 
Your  love  I  did  allow, 
But  then  you  know,  you  stand  upon 
Another  footing  now !" 

"  O  Nelly  Gray  !  O  Nelly  Gray  ! 
For  all  your  cheering  speeches, 
At  duty's  call  I  left  my  legs 
In  Badajos's  breaches T^ 

"Why,  then,"  said  she,  "you've  lost  the  feet 
Of  legs  in  war's  alarms, 
And  now  you  cannot  wear  your  shoes 
Upon  your  feats  of  arms  !" 


"  O,  false  and  fickle  Nelly  Gray  ; 
I  know  why  you  refuse  : — 
Though  I've  no  feet — some  other  man 
Is  standing  in  my  shoes  ! 

'  I  wish  I  n'er  had  seen  your  face  ; 
But,  now,  a  long  farewell ! 
For  you  will  be  my  death  : — alas  ! 
You  will  not  be  my  Nell P^ 

Now  when  he  went  from  Nelly  Gray, 

His  heart  so  heavy  got — 
And  life  was  such  a  burthen  grown. 

It  made  him  take  a  knot ! 

So  round  his  melancholy  neck 

A  rope  he  did  entwine, 
And,  for  his  second  time  in  life. 

Enlisted  in  the  Line  1 

One  end  he  tied  around  a  beam, 

And  then  removed  his  pegs, 
And,  as  his  legs  were  off— of  course. 

He  soon  was  off  his  legs  ! 

And  there  he  hung  till  he  was  dead 

As  any  nail  in  town — 
For  though  distress  had  cut  him  up. 

It  could  not  cut  him  down  ! 

A  dozen  men  sat  on  his  corpse, 

To  find  out  why  he  died — 
And  they  buried  Ben  in  four  cross-roads, 

With  a  stake  in  his  inside  ! 

Thomas  Hood 


THE  MISER'S  WILL 

HIS  tale  is  true,  for  s^  the  records  Fhow; 
'Twas  in  Germany,  not  many  years  ago  : 

Your>g  Erfurth  loved.     But  ere  the  wedding 
day 

His  dearest  friend  stole  with  his  bride  away, 
The  woman  false  that  he  had  deemed  so  true, 
The  friend  he  trusted  but  an  ingrate,  too  ; 
What  wonder  that,  his  love  to  hatred  grown. 
His  heart  should  seem  to  all  mankind  a  stone? 
All  kindred  ties  he  broke,  himself  be  banned. 
And  sought  a  solitude  in  stranger  land. 

Grief  finds  relief  in  something  found  to  do, 
The  mind  must  find  some  object  to  pursue ; 
And  so,  ere  long,  his  being  was  controlled 
By  sole,  debasing,  longing  greed  for  gold. 
How  soon  his  little  multiplied  to  much  ! 
His  hand  seemed  gifted  with  a  Midas  touch ; 
Yet  still  he  kept  himself  unto  himself, 
None  seeing  but  for  increase  of  his  pelf. 


NARRATIVES  AND  BALLADS. 


61 


Death  came  at  last ;  discovering  ere  he  died, 
His  heart  had  yet  one  spot  unpetrified  ; 
For,  on  his  bed,  his  hand  upon  it  still, 
There,  open,  lay  the  poor  old  miser's  will. 

The  will  was  read ;  there  to  his  brothers  three 
He  left  to  each  a  thousand  marks  ;  and  he, 
The  friend  who  caused  him  all  his  grief  and  shame, 
Was,  with  his  free  forgiveness,  left  the  same  ; 
But  none  of  these,  to  whom  such  wealth  he  gave 
Should  follow  his  remains  unto  the  grave 
On  pain  of  forfeit.     'Neath  his  pillow  pressed 
Was  found  a  letter,  sealed ;  and  thus  addressed  : 
"To  my  dear  native  city  of  Berlin." 

The  brothers  heard,  and  thought  it  was  no  sin 
To  stay  away ;  besides,  his  absence  long 
Had  quenched  the  love  not  ever  over-strong. 
Wliat  did  the  faithless  friend  ?    He  knelt  in  tears, 
Looked  back  in  anguish  o'er  the  vanished  years, 
Saw  once  again  their  happy  boyhood's  time. 
Their  manhood's  friendship,  his  repented  crime. 
"Oh,  my  wronged  Erfurth,  now  in  death  so  cold, 
I've  your  forgiveness,  care  I  for  your  gold?" 
And,  at  the  funeral,  striving  to  atone. 
The  single  mourner  there,  he  walked  alone. 

The  letter,  opened  at  the  Mayor's  will, 
Was  found  to  hold  the  miser's  codicil. 
Wherein  he  gave  his  hoarded  gold  and  lands 
To  him  that  disobeyed  the  will's  commands. 
Should  such  there  be — whose  heart  knew  love    ( 

pity— 
Or,  failing,  all  went  to  his  native  city. 

And  so  the  friend  who  stole  his  bride  away ; 
Who  turned  to  night  his  joyous  morn  of  day. 
Humbly  repentant,  when  his  victim  died. 
Received  his  pardon  and  his  wealth  beside. 

George  Birdskye. 


Q 


THE  TALE  OF  A  TRAMP. 

ET  me  sit  down  a  moment ; 
A  stone's  got  into  my  shoe. 
Don't  you  commence  your  cussin' — 
I  ain't  done  nothin'  to  you. 
Yes,  I'm  a  tramp — what  of  it? 

Folks  say  we  ain't  no  good — 
Tramps  have  got  to  live,  I  reckon. 

Though  people  don't  think  we  should. 
Once  I  was  young  and  handsome  ; 

Had  plenty  of  cash  and  clothes — 
That  was  before  I  got  to  tipplin'. 

And  gin  got  in  my  nose. 
Way  down  in  the  Lehigh  Valley 

Me  and  my  people  grew  ; 
I  was  a  blacksmith,  Captain, 

Yes,  and  a  good  one,  too. 


Me  and  my  wife,  and  Nellie — 

Nellie  was  just  sixteen. 
And  she  was  the  pootiest  cretur 

The  Valley  had  ever  seen. 
Beaux  !     Why  she  had  a  dozen, 

Had  'em  from  near  and  fur ; 
But  they  was  mostly  farmers — 

None  of  them  suited  her. 
But  there  was  a  city  chap. 

Handsome,  young  and  tall — 
Ah  !  curse  liim  !  I  wish  I  had  him 

To  strangle  against  yonder  wall  1 
He  was  the  man  for  Nellie — 

She  didn't  know  no  ill ; 
Mother,  she  tried  to  stop  it, 

But  you  know  young  girls'  will. 
Well,  it's  the  same  old  story — 

Common  enough,  you  say — 
But  he  was  a  soft-tongued  devil. 

And  got  her  to  run  away. 
More  than  a  month,  or  later. 

We  heard  from  the  poor  young  thing — 
He  had  run  away  and  left  her 

Without  any  weddin'-ring  1 
Back  to  her  home  we  brought  her, 

Back  to  her  mother's  side  ; 
Filled  with  a  ragin'  fever, 

She  fell  at  my  feet  and  died  ! 
Frantic  with  shame  and  sorrow. 

Her  mother  began  to  sink. 
And  died  in  less  than  a  fortnight ; 

That's  when  I  took  to  drink. 
Come,  give  me  a  glass  now.  Colonel, 

And  I'll  be  on  my  way. 
And  111  tramp  till  I  catch  that  scoundrel. 

If  it  takes  till  the  judgment  day. 


LITTLE  GOLDEN-HAIR. 

•^  ITTLE  Golden-hair  was  watching,  in  the  wm- 
'%  T  ^°^  broad  and  high, 

M^        For  the  coming  of  her  father,  who  had  gone 

the  foe  to  fight ; 
He  had  left  her  in  the  morning,  and  had  told  hernot 
to  cry. 
But  to  have  a  kiss  all  ready  when  he  came  to  her 
at  night. 

She  had  wandered,  all  the  day, 
In  her  simple  childish  way, 
And  had  asked,  as  time  went  on. 
Where  her  father  could  have  gone. 

She  had  heard  the  muskets  firing,  she  had  counted 
every  one. 
Till  the  number  grew  so  many  that  it  was  too  gjreat 
a  load ;  / 


62 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


Then  the  evening  fell  upon  her,  clear  of  sound  of 
shot  or  gun, 
And  she  gazed  with  wistful  waiting  down  the  dusty 
Concord  road. 

Little  Golden-hair  had  listened,  not  a  single  week  be- 
-    fore, 
While  the  heavy  sand  was  falling  on  her  mother's 
coffin-lid ; 
And  she  loved  her  father  better  for  the  loss  that  then 
she  bore, 
And  thought  of  him  and  yearned  for  him,  whatever 
else  she  did. 

So  she  wondered  all  the  day 
What  could  make  her  father  stay, 
And  she  cried  a  little  too, 
As  he  told  her  not  to  do. 

And  the  sun  sunk  slowly  downward  and  went  grand- 
ly out  of  sight, 
And  she  had  the  kiss  all  ready  on  his  lips  to  be  be- 
stowed ; 
But  the  shadows  made  one  shadow,  and  the  twilight 
grew  to  night, 
And  she  looked,  and  looked,  and  listened,  down 
the  dusty  Concord  road. 

Then  the  night  grew  light  and  lighter,  and  the  moon 
rose  full  and  round, 
In  the  little  sad  face  peering,  looking  piteously  and 
mild ; 
Still  upon  the  walks  of  gravel  there  was  heard  no 
welcome  sound. 
And  no  father  came  there,  eager  for  the  kisses  of 
his  child. 

Long  and  sadly  did  she  wait, 
Listening  at  the  cottage-gate  ; 
Then  she  felt  a  quick  alarm, 
Lest  he  might  have  come  to  harm. 

With  no  bonnet  but  her  tresses,  no  companion  but 
her  fears, 
And  no  guide  except  the  moonbeams  that  the  path- 
way dimly  showed. 
With  a  little  sob  of  sorrow,  quick  she  threw  away  her 
tears, 
And  alone  she  bravely  started  down  the  dustv  Con- 
cord road. 

And  for  many  a  mile  she  struggled,  full  of  weanness 
and  pain. 
Calling  loudly  for  her  father,  that  her  voice  he  might 
not  miss  ; 
Till  at  last,  among  a  number  of  the  wounded  and  the 
slain. 
Was  the  white  face  of  the  soldier,   waiting  for  his 
daughter's  kiss. 


Softly  to  his  lips  she  crept, 
Not  to  wake  him  as  he  slept ; 
Then,  with  her  young  heart  at  rest, 
Laid  her  head  upon  his  breast. 

And  upon  the  dead  face  smiling,  with  the  living  one 
near  by, 
All  the  night  a  golden  streamlet  of  the  moonbeams 
gently  flowed  ! 
One  to  live  a  lor^ply  orphan,  one  beneath  the  sod  to 
lie— 
They  found  them  in  the  morning  on  the  dusty  Con- 
cord road. 

Will  M.  Carleton. 

THE  WONDERFUL  "ONE-HOSS  SHAY." 

'AVE  you  heard  of  the  wonderful  one-hoss  shay, 
That  was  built  in  such  a  logical  way 
It  ran  a  hundred  years  to  a  day, 
And  then,  of  a  sudden,  it — Ah,  but  stay, 

I'll  tell  you  what  happened,  without  delay — 

Scaring  the  parson  into  fits. 

Frightening  people  out  of  their  wits — 

Have  you  ever  heard  of  that,  I  say  ? 

Seventeen  hundred  and  fifty-five, 
Georgius  Secundus  was  then  alive — 
Snuffy  old  drone  from  the  German  hive. 
Tliat  was  the  year  when  Lisbon  town 
Saw  the  earth  open  and  gulp  her  down, 
And  Braddock's  army  was  done  so  brown, 
Left  without  a  scalp  to  its  crown. 
It  was  on  the  terrible  earthquake-day 
That  the  deacon  finished  the  one-hoss  shay. 

Now,  in  building  of  chaises,  I  tell  you  what. 

There  is  always,  somewhere,  a  weakest  spot — 

In  hub,  tire,  felloe,  in  spring  or  thill. 

In  panel  or  crossbar,  or  floor,  or  sill, 

In  screw,  bolt,  thoroughbrace — lurking  still. 

Find  it  somewhere  you  must  and  will — 

Above  or  below,  or  within  or  without — 

And  that's  the  reason,  beyond  a  doubt, 

A  chaise  breaks  down,  but  does'nt  wear  out. 

But  the  deacon  swore — (as  deacons  do. 
With  an  "I  dew  vum  "  or  an  "I  tell  yeou,") — 
He  would  build  one  shay  to  beat  the  taown 
'N'  the  keounty  'n'  all  the  kentry  raoun' ; 
It  should  be  so,  built  that  it  couldn'  break  daown  : — 
"  Fur,"  said  the  deacon,  "  't's  mighty  plain 
That  the  weakes'  place  mus'  stan'  the  strain 
'N'  the  way  t'  fix  it,  uz  I  maintain. 

Is  only  jest 
To  make  that  place  uz  strong  uz  the  rest."' 

So  the  deacon  inquired  of  the  village  folk 
Where  he  could  find  the  strongest  oak. 
That  could  n't  be  split,  nor  bent,  nor  broke — 


NARRATIVES  AND  BALLADS. 


63 


That  was  for  spokes,  and  floor,  and  ^ills  ; 

He  sent  for  lancewood,  to  make  the  thills  ; 

The  crossbars  were  ash,  from  the  straightest  trees  ; 

The  panels  of  white-wood,  that  cuts  like  cheese, 

But  lasts  like  iron  for  things  like  these  ; 

The  hubs  from  log^s  from  the  "  Settler's  ellum," 

Last  of  its  timber — they  couldn't  sell  'em — 

Never  an  ax  had  seen  their  chips. 

And  the  wedges  flew  from  between  their  lips, 

Their  blunt  ends  frizzled  like  celery-tips  ; 

Step  and  prop-iron,  bolt  and  screw. 

Spring,  tire,  axle,  and  linchpin  too, 

Steel  of  the  finest,  bright  and  blue  ; 

Thoroughbrace  bison-skin,  thick  and  wide  ; 

Boot,  top,  dasher,  from  tough  old  hide. 

Found  in  the  pit  where  the  tanner  died. 

That  was  the  way  he  "  put  her  through." 

"  There  ! "  said  the  deacon,  "  naow  she'll  dew  ! " 

Do !  I  tell  you,  I  rather  guess 

She  was  a  wonder,  and  nothing  less  ! 

Colts  grew  horses,  beards  turned  gray,  • 

Deacon  and  deaconess  dropped  away. 

Children  and  grandchildren — where  were  they  ? 

But  there  stood  the  stout  old  one-hoss  shay, 

As  fresh  as  on  Lisbon-earthquake-day  ! 

Eighteen  hundred — it  came,  and  found 

The  deacon's  masterpiece  strong  and  sound. 

Eighteen  hundred,  increased  by  ten — 

"  Hahnsum  kerridge  "  they  called  it  then. 

Eighteen  hundred  and  twenty  came — 

Running  as  usual — much  the  same. 

Thirty  and  forty  at  last  arrive  ; 

And  then  came  fifty — and  fifty-five. 

Little  of  all  we  value  here 

Wakes  on  the  mom  of  its  hundreth  year 

Without  both  feeling  and  looking  queer. 

In  fact,  there's  nothing  that  keeps  its  youth. 

So  far  as  I  know,  but  a  tree  and  truth. 

(This  is  a  moral  that  runs  at  large  : 

Take  it. — You're  welcome. — No  extra  charge.) 

First  of  November — the  earthquake  day. — 

There  are  traces  of  age  in  the  one-hoss  shay, 

A  general  flavor  of  mild  decay — 

But  nothing  local,  as  one  may  say. 

There  couldn't  be — for  the  Deacon's  art 

Had  made  it  so  like  in  every  part 

That  there  wasn't  a  chance  for  one  to  start. 

For  the  wheels  were  just  as  strong  as  the  thills. 
And  the  floor  was  just  as  strong  as  the  sills, 
And  the  panels  just  as  strong  as  the  floor, 
And  the  whipple-tree  neither  less  nor  more, 
And  the  back  crossbar  as  strong  as  the  fore,^ 
And  spring,  and  axle,  and  hub  encore. 
And  yet,  as  a  whole,  it  is  past  a  doubt 
In  another  hour  it  will  be  worn  out ! 


First  of  November,  'Fifty-five ! 

This  morning  the  parson  takes  a  drive. 

Now,  small  boys,  get  out  of  the  way ! 

Here  comes  the  wonderful  one-hoss  shay, 

Drawn  by  a  rat-tailed,  ewe-necked  bay. 

"  Huddup  !  "  said  the  parson.— Ofi"  went  they. 

The  parson  was  working  his  Sunday  text — 
Had  got  to  "fifthly,"  and  stoppt;d  perplexed 
At  what  the — Moses — was  coming  next. 
All  at  once  the  horse  stood  still. 
Close  by  the  meet'n'-house  on  the  hill. 
— First  a  shiver,  and  then  a  thrill, 
Then  something  decidedly  like  a  spill — 
And  the  parson  was  sitting  upon  a  rock. 
At  half-past  nine  by  the  meet'n'-house  clock — 
Just  the  hour  of  the  earthquake  shock ! 

What  do  you  think  the  parson  found. 
When  he  got  up  and  stared  around  ! 
The  poor  old  chaise  in  a  heap  or  mound, 
As  if  it  had  been  to  the  mill  and  ground ! 
You  see,  of  course,  if  you're  not  a  dunce. 
How  it  went  to  pieces  all  at  once — 
All  at  once,  and  nothing  first — 
Just  as  bubbles  do  when  they  burst. — 
End  of  the  wonderful  one-hoss  shay. 
Logic  is  logic.    That's  all  I  say. 

Oliver  Wendell  Hol.mes. 


0 


THE  DRUMMER-BOY'S  BURIAL 

LL  day  long  the  storm  of  battle  through  the 
startled  valley  swept ; 
All  night  long  the  stars  in  heaven  o'er  the 
slain  sad  vigils  kept. 


O,  the  ghastly  upturned  faces  gleaming  whitely  through 

the  night ! 
O,  the  heaps  of  mangled  corses  in  that  dim  sepulchral 

light ! 

One  by  one  the  pale  stars  faded,  and  at  length  the 

morning  broke. 
But  not  one  of  all  the  sleepers  on  that  field  of  death 

awoke. 

Slowly  passed  the  golden  hours  of  that  long  bright 

summer  day. 
And  upon  that  field  of  carnage  still  the  dead  unburied 

lay. 

Lay  there  stark  and  cold,  but  pleading  with  a  dumb, 

unceasing  prayer, 
For  a  little  dust  to  hide  them  from  the  staring  sun  and 

air. 

But  the  foeman  held  possession  of  the  hard-won  battle- 
plain, 
In  unholy  wrath  denying  even  burial  to  our  slain. 


64 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


Once  again  the  night  dropped  round  them— night  so 

holy  and  so  calm 
That  the  moonbeams  hushed  the  spirit,  like  the  sound 

of  prayer  or  psalm. 

On  a  couch  of  trampled  grasses,  just  apart  from  all  the 

rest, 
Lay  a  fair  young  boy,  with  small  hands  meekly  folded 

on  his  breast 

Death  had  touched  him  very  gently,  and  he  lay  as  if 

in  sleep ; 
E'en  his  mother  scarce  had  shuddered  at  that  slumber 

calm  and  deep. 

For  a  smile  of  wondrous  sweetness  lent  a  radiance  to 

the  face, 
And  the  hand  of  cunning  sculptor  could  have  added 

naught  of  grace 

To  the  marble  limbs  so  perfect  in  their  passionless  re- 
pose. 

Robbed  of  all  save  matchless  purity  by  hard,  unpitying 
foes. 

And  the  broken  drum  beside  him  all  his  life's  short 

story  told : 
How  he  did  his  duty  bravely  till  the  death-tide  o'er  him 

rolled. 

Midnight  came  with  ebon  garments  and  a  diadem  of 

stars. 
While  right  upward  in  the  zenith  hung  the  fiery  planet 

Mars. 

Hark !  a  sound  of  stealthy  footsteps  and  of   voices 

whispering  low. 
Was  it  nothing  but  the  young  leaves,  or  the  brooklet's 

murmuring  flow  ? 

Clinging  closely  to  each  other,  striving  never  to  look 

round. 
As  they  passed  with  silent  shudder  the  pale  corses  on 

the  ground, 

Came  two  little  maidens — sisters — with  a  light  and 
hasty  tread. 


And  a  look  upon  their  faces,  half  of  sorrow,  half  of 
dread. 

And  they  did  not  pause  nor  falter  till,  with  throbbing 
hearts,  they  stood 

Where  the  drummer  boy  was  lying  in  that  partial  soli- 
tude. 

They  had  brought  some  simple  garments  from  their 

wardrobe's  scanty  store. 
And  two  heavy  iron  shovels  in  their  slender  hands  they 

bore. 

Then  they  quickly  knelt  beside  him,  crushing  back  the 

pitying  tears, 
For  they  had  no  time  for  weeping,  nor  for  any  girlish 

fears. 

And  they  robed  the  icy  body,  while  no  glow  of  maiden 
shame 

Changed  the  pallor  of  their  foreheads  to  a  flush  of  lam- 
bent flame. 

For  their  saintly  hearts  yearned  o'er  it  in  that  hour  of 

sorest  need. 
And  they  felt  that  Death  was  holy,  and  it  sanctified  the 

deed. 

But  they  smiled  and  kissed  each  other  when  their  new 
strange  task  was  o'er. 

And  the  form  that  lay  before  them  its  unwonted  gar- 
ments wore. 

Then  with  slow  and  weary  labor  a  small  grave  they 

hollowed  out, 
And  they  lined  it  with  the  withered  grass  and  leaves 

that  lay  about. 

But  the  day  was  slowly  breaking  ere  their  holy  work 

was  done, 
And  in  crimson  pomp  the  morning  heralded  again  the 

sun. 

Gently  then  those  little  maidens — they  were  children  of 

our  foes — 
Laid  the  body  oT  our  drummer-boy  to  undisturbed  re 

pose. 


LOVE  SND  FRIENDSHIP. 


THOU'RT  ALL  THE  WORLD  TO  ME. 


EAVEN  hath  its  crown 
of  stars,  the  earth 
Her    glory- robe    of 
flowers — 
The  sea  its  gems — the 
grand  old  woods 
Their  songs   and 
greening  showers : 
The    birds    have    homes, 
where    leaves    and 
blooms 
In  beauty  wreathe  above; 
High  yearning  hearts,  their 
rainbow-dream — 
And  we,  sweet !  we  have 
love. 

W^e  walk  not  with  the  jewell'd  gjeat, 

Where  love's  dear  name  is  sold  ; 
Yet  have  we  wealth  we  would  not  give 

For  all  their  world  of  gold  1 
We  revel  not  in  corn  and  wine, 

Yet  have  we  from  above 
Masna  divine,  and  we'll  not  pine, 

While  we  may  live  and  love. 

Chenibim,  with  clasping  wings, 

Ever  about  us  be, 
And,  happiest  of  God's  happy  things. 

There's  love  for  you  and  me  ! 
Thy  lips,  that  kiss  to  death,  have  turn'd 

Life's  water  into  wine  ; 
The  sweet  life  melting  through  thy  looks, 

H^th  made  my  life  divine. 

All  love's  dear  promise  hath  been  kept. 

Since  thou  to  me  wert  given ; 
A  ladder  for  my  soul  to  climb, 

And  summer  high  in  heaven. 
I  know,  dear  heart !  that  in  our  lot 

May  mingle  tears  and  sorrow : 
But,  love's  rich  rainbow's  built  from  tears 

To-day,  with  smiles  to-morrow. 

The  sunshine  from  our  sky  may  die. 

The  greenness  from  life's  tree, 
But  ever,  'mid  the  warring  storm. 

Thy  nest  shall  shelter'd  be. 
The  world  may  never  know,  dear  heart ! 

What  I  have  found  in  thee  ; 
But,  though  naught  to  the  world,  dear  heart ! 

Thou'rt  all  the  world  to  me. 

Gerald  Massky. 
5 


THE  QUEEN. 

ES,  wife,  I'd  be  a  throned  king, 
That  you  might  share  my  royal  seat, 
That  titled  beauty  I  might  bring, 
And  princes'  homage  to  your  feet. 
How  quickly,  then,  would  nobles  see 
Your  courtly  grace,  your  regal  mien  ; 
Even  duchesses  all  blind  should  be 
To  flaw  or  speck  in  you,  their  queen. 

Poor  wish  !  O,  wife,  a  queen  you  are. 
To  those  feet  many  a  subject  brings 
A  truer  homage,  nobler  far 
Than  bends  before  the  thrones  of  kings. 
You  rule  a  realm,  wife,  in  this  heart, 
Where  not  one  rebel  fancy's  seen, 
Where  hopes  and  smiles,  how  joyous  !  start 
To  own  the  sway  of  you,  their  queen. 

How  loyal  are  my  thoughts  by  day  ! 
How  faithful  is  each  dream  of  night ! 
Not  one  but  lives  but  to  obey 
Your  rule — to  serve  you,  its  delight ; 
My  hours — each  instant — every  breath 
Are,  wife,  as  all  have  ever  been. 
Your  slaves,  to  serve  you  unto  death; 
O  wife,  you  are  indeed  a  queen  ! 

William  Cox  EEKNHrrT 


THE  VALE  OF  AVOCA. 

HERE  is  not  in  this  wide  world  a  valley  so 
sweet 
As  that  vale,  in    whose  bosom  the  bright 
I  waters  meet ; 

O,  the  last  ray  of  feeling  and  life  must  depart 
Ere  the  bloom  of  that  valley  shall  fade  from  my  heart ! 

Yet  it  was  not  that  Nature  had  shed  o'er  the  scene 
Her  purest  of  crystal  and  brightest  of  green  ; 
'Twas  not  the  soft  magic  of  streamlet  or  hill — 
O,  no  1  it  was  something  more  exquisite  still. 

Twas  that  friends,  the  beloved  of  my  bosom,  were 

near. 
Who  made  ev'ry  dear  scene  of  enchantment  more 

dear, 
And  who  felt  how  the  best  charms  of  nature  improve. 
When  we  see  them  reflected  from  looks  that  we  love. 


Sweet  Vale  of  Avoca  !  how  calm  could  I  rest 

In  thy  bosom  of  shade,  with  the  friends  I  love  best ; 

Where  the  storms  that  we  feel  in  this  cold  w^orld 

should  cease, 
And  our  hearts,  like  thy  waters,  be  mingled  in  peace. 

Thomas  Moore. 
(65) 


«6 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


ANNABEL  LEE. 

'  T  was  many  and  many  a  year  ago, 
In  a  kingdom  Ly  the  sea, 
That  a  maiden  there  lived,  whom  you  may  know 
By  the  name  of  Annabel  Lee  ; 
And  tin's  maiden  she  lived  With  no  other  thought 
Than  to  love,  and  be  loved  by  me. 

I  was  a  child,  and  she  was  a  child, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea  ; 
But  we  loved  with  a  love  that  was  more  than  love, 

I  and  my  Annabel  Lee — 
With  a  love  that  the  winged  seraphs  of  heaven 

Coveted  her  and  me. 

And  this  was  the  reason  that,  long  ago. 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
A  wind  blew  out  of  a  cloud,  chilling 

My  beautiful  Annabel  Lee  ; 
So  that  her  high-born  kinsmen  came 

And  bore  her  away  from  me,  ' 

To  shut  her  up  in  a  sepulchre 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea. 

The  angels,  not  half  so  happy  in  heaven, 

Went  envying  her  and  me. 
Yes  !  that  was  the  reason  (as  all  men  know, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea) 
That  tlie  wind  came  out  of  the  cloud  by  night, 

Chilling  and  killing  my  Annabel  Lee. 

But  our  love  it  was  stronger  by  far  than  the  love 

Of  those  who  were  older  than  we, 

Of  many  far  wiser  than  we  ; 
And  neither  the  angels  in  heaven  above, 

Nor  the  demons  down  under  the  sea. 
Can  ever  dissever  my  soul  from  the  soul 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee. 

For  the  moon  never  beams  without  bringing  me  dreams 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee, 
And  the  stars  never  rise,  but  I  feel  the  bright  eyes 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee  ; 
And  so  all  the  night-time,  I  lie  down  by  the  side 
Of  my  darling— my  darling— my  life  and  my  bride 
In  the  sepulchre  there  by  the  sea, 
In  her  tomb  by  the  sounding  sea. 

Edgar  Allen  Poe. 


TO  MARY  IN  HEAVEN. 

Composed  by  Burns  on  the  anniversary  of  the  day  on  which  he 
heard  of  the  death  of  his  early  love,  Mary  Campbell. 

HOU  lingering  star,  with  lessening  ray, 
That  lov'st  to  greet  the  early  morn, 
Again  thou  usher'st  in  the  day 
T  My  Mary  from  my  soul  was  torn. 

O  Mary  !  dear  departed  shade  ! 

Where  is  thy  place  of  blissful  rest  ? 
See'st  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid  ? 

Hear'st  thou  the  groans  that  rend  his  breast  ? 


That  sacred  hour  can  I  forget — 

Can  I  forget  the  hallowed  grove,       ' 
Where  by  the  winding  Ayr  we  met 

To  live  one  day  of  parting  love? 
Eternity  will  not  efface 

Those  records  dear  of  transports  past ; 
Thy  image  at  our  last  embrace  ; 

Ah  !  little  thought  we  'twas  our  last ! 

Ayr,  gurgling,  kissed  his  pebbled  shore, 

O'erhung  with  wild  woods,  thickening  green  ; 
The  fragrant  birch,  and  hawthorn  hoar, 

Twined  amorous  round  the  raptured  scene  ; 
The  flowers  sprang  wanton  to  be  prest. 

The  birds  sang  love  on  every  spray — 
Till  soon,  too  soon,  the  glowing  west 

Proclaimed  the  speed  of  winged  day. 

Still  o'er  these  scenes  my  memory  wakes, 

And  fondly  broods  with  miser  care  ! 
Time  but  the  impression  stronger  makes, 

As  streams  their  channels  deeper  wear. 
My  Mary  I  dear  departed  shade  1 

Where  is  thy  place  of  blissful  rest  ? 
See'st  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid  ? 

Hear'st  thou  the  groans  that  rend  his  breast  ? 

Robert  Burns. 

THE  SAILOR'S  FAREWELL 


HE  topsails  shiver  in  the  wind. 
The  ship  she  casts  to  sea  ; 
But  yet  my  soul,  my  heart,  my  mind, 
J  Are,  Mary,  moor'd  by  thee  : 

For  though  thy  sailor's  bound  afar  ; 
Still  love  shall  be  his  leading  star. 

Should  landmen  flatter  when  we're  sailed, 

O  doubt  their  artful  tales  ; 
No  gallant  sailor  eved  fail'd, 
'  If  Cupid  fill'd  his  sails: 
Thou  art  the  compass  of  my  soul. 
Which  steers  my  heart  from  pole  to  pole. 

Sirens  in  ev'ry  port  we  meet, 
More  fell  than  rocks  and  waves  ; 

But  sailors  of  the  British  fleet 
Are  lovers,  and  not  slaves  : 

No  foes  our  courage  shall  subdue. 

Although  we've  left  our  hearts  with  you. 

These  are  our  cares  ;  but  if  you're  kind, 

We'll  scorn  the  dashing  main, 
The  rocks,  the  billows,  and  the  wind. 

The  powers  of  France  and  Spain. 
Now  Britain's  glory,  rests  with  you, 
Our  sails  are  full — sweet  girls,  adieu  ! 

Edward  Thompson. 


YES  PR  W®? 


i 


68 


CROWN  JEV/ELS. 


HAD  I  A  HEART  FOR  FALSEHOOD  FRAMED. 

AD  I  a  heart  for  falseliood  framed, 
I  ne'er  could  injure  you  ; 
For  though  your  tongue  no  promise  claimed, 
Your  charms  would  make  me  true  : 
To  you  no  soul  shall  bear  deceit, 

No  stranger  offer  wron;j  ; 
But  friends  in  all  the  aged  you'll  meet, 
And  lovers  in  the  young. 

For  when  they  learn  that  you  have  blest 

Another  with  your  heart, 
They'll  bid  aspiring  passion  rest, 

And  act  a  brother's  part. 
Then,  lady,  dread  not  here  deceit. 

Nor  fear  to  suffer  wrong ; 
For  friends  in  allthe  aged  you'll  meet, 

And  brothers  in  the  young. 

Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan. 

THE  MINSTREL'S  SONG  IN  ELLA. 


SING  unto  my  roundelay  ! 

O,  drop  the  briny  tear  with  me  ! 
J     Dance  no  more  at  holiday. 
Like  a  running  river  be. 
My  love  is  dead, 
Gone  to  his  death-bed, 
All  under  the  willow-tree. 

Black  his  hair  as  the  winter  night. 

White  his  neck  as  the  summer  snow. 
Ruddy  his  face  as  the  morning  light ; 
Cold  he  lies  in  the  grave  below. 
My  love  is  dead, 
Gone  to  his  death-bed, 
All  under  the  willow-tree. 

Sweet  his  tongue  as  throstle's  note, 

Quick  in  dance  as  thought  was  he  ; 
Deft  his  tabor,  cudgel  stout ; 
O,  he  lies  by  the  willow-tree  ! 
My  love  is  dead. 
Gone  to  his  death-bed, 
All  under  the  willow-tree. 

Hark  !  the  raven  flaps  his  wing 

In  the  briered  dell  below ; 
Hark  !  the  death-owl  loud  doth  sing 
To  the  nightmares  as  they  go. 
My  love  is  dead. 
Gone  to  his  death-bed, 
All  under  the  willow-tree. 

See  !  the  white  moon  shines  on  high  ; 

Whiter  is  my  true-love's  shroud, 
Whiter  than  the  morning  sky, 

Whiter  than  the  evening  cloud. 


My  love  is  dead, 
Gone  to  his  death  bed, 
All  under  the  willow-tree. 

Here,  upon  my  true-love's  grave, 
Shall  the  garish  flowers  be  laid. 
Nor  one  holy  saint  to  save 
All  the  sorrows  of  a  maid. 
My  love  is  dead, 
Gone  to  his  death-bed. 
All  under  the  willow-tree. 

Come  with  acorn  cup  and  thorn. 

Drain  my  heart's  blood  all  away ; 
Life  and  all  its  good  I  scorn, 
Dance  by  night,  or  feast  by  day. 
My  love  is  dead, 
Gone  to  his  death-bed. 
All  under  the  willow-tree. 

Thomas  Chatterton. 


THE  HARE-BELL. 

I Y  sylvan  waves  that  westward  flow 
A  hare-bell  bent  its  beauty  low. 
With  slender  waist  and  modest  brow, 
Amidst  the  shades  descending. 
A  star  look'd  from  the  paler  sky — 
The  hare-bell  gazed,  and  with  a  sigh 
Forgot  that  love  may  look  too  high, 
And  sorrow  without  ending. 

By  casement  hid,  the  flowers  among, 
A  maiden  lean'd  and  listen' d  long  ; 
It  was  the  hour  of  love  and  song, 

And  early  night-birds  calling  : 
A  barque  across  the  river  drew — 
The  rose  was  glowing  through  and  through 
The  maiden's  cheek  of  trembling  hue, 

Amidst  the  twilight  falling. 

She  saw  no  star,  she  saw  no  flower — 
Her  heart  expanded  to  the  hour  ; 
She  reck'd  not  of  her  lowly  dower 

Amidst  the  shades  descending. 
With  love  thus  fix'd  upon  a  height, 
That  seem'd  so  beauteous  to  the  sight, 
How  could  she  think  of  wrong  and  blight, 

And  sorrow  without  ending. 

The  hare-bell  droop'd  beneath  the  dew, 
And  closed  its  eye  of  tender  blue  ; 
No  sun  could  e'er  its  life  renew. 

Nor  star,  in  music  calling. 
The  autumn  leaves  were  early  shed  ; 
But  earlier  on  her  cottage  bed 
The  maiden's  loving  heart  lay  dead, 

Amidst  the  twilight  falling  ! 

Charles  Swain. 


LOVE  AND   FRIENDSHIP. 


69 


FORSAKEN. 

EVER  any  more, 

While  I  live, 
Need  I  hope  to  see  his  face 

As  before. 
Once  his  love  grown  chill, 

Mine  may  strive — 
Bitterly  we  reembrace, 

Single  still. 

Was  it  something  said, 

Something  done, 
Vexed  him?  was  it  touch  of  hand, 

Turn  of  head  ? 
Strange !  that  very  way 

Love  begun. 
I  as  little  understand 

Love's  decay. 

When  I  sewed  or  drew, 

I  recall 
How  he  looked  as  if  I  sang 

— Sweetly  too. 
If  I  spoke  a  word. 

First  of  all 
Up  his  cheek  the  color  sprang, 

Then  he  heard. 

Sitting  by  my  side. 

At  my  feet, 
So  he  breathed  the  air  I  breathed, 

Satisfied  ! 
I,  too,  at  love's  brim 

Touched  the  sweet. 
I  would  die  if  death  bequeathed 

Sweet  to  him. 

■"  Speak— I  love  thee  best ! " 

He  e.Kclaimed — 
"  Let  thy  love  my  own  foretell." 

I  confessed : 
•'  Clasp  my  heart  on  thine 

Now  unblamed, 
Since  upon  thy  soul  as  well 

Hangeth  mine!" 

Was  it  wrong  to  own, 

Being  truth? 
Why  should  all  the  giving  prove 

His  alone? 
I  had  wealth  and  ease, 

Beauty,  youth — 
Smce  my  lover  gave  me  love, 

I  gave  these. 

That  was  all  I  meant, 

—To  be  just, 
And  the  passion  I  had  raised 

To  content. 
Since  he  chose  to  change 

Gold  for  dust. 


If  I  gave  him  what  he  praised, 
Was  it  strange? 

Would  he  lov'd  me  yet. 

On  and  on, 
While  I  found  some  way  undreamed 

— Paid  my  debt ! 
Gave  more  life  and  more, 

Till,  all  gone. 
He  should  smile— "She  never  seemed 

Mine  before. 

"What— she  felt  the  while,,  ' 
Must  I  think? 
Love's  so  different  with  us  men." 
He  should  smile. 
"  Dying  for  my  sake — 
W^hite  and  pink ! 
Can't  we  touch  these  bubbles  then, 
But  they  break?" 

Dear,  the  pang  is  brief. 

Do  thy  part. 
Have  thy  pleasure.     How  perplext 

Grows  belief! 
Well,  this  cold  clay  clod 

W^as  man's  heart. 

Crumble  it— and  what  comes  next  ? 

Is  it  God? 

Robert  Browning. 


© 


ABSENT  STILL. 

AY,  in  melting  purple  dying  ; 

Blossoms,  all  around  me  sighing  ; 

Fragrance,  from  the  lilies  straying  ; 

Zephyr,  with  my  ringlets  playing ; 

Ye  but  waken  my  distress ; 

I  am  sick  of  loneliness  ! 

Thou,  to  whom  I  love  to  hearken. 
Come,  ere  night  around  me  darken  ; 
Though  thy  softness  but  deceive  me, 
•  Say  thou'rt  true,  and  I'll  believe  thee; 

Veil,  if  ill,  thy  soul's  intent, 

Let  me  think  it  innocent ! 

Save  thy  toiling,  spare  thy  treasure ; 
All  I  ask  is  friendship's  pleasure ; 
Let  the  shining  ore  lie  darkling — 
Bring  no  gem  in  lustre  sparkling ; 

Gifts  and  gold  are  naught  to  me. 

I  would  only  look  on  thee  ! 

Absent  still !    Ah  !  come  and  bless  me  . 

Let  these  eyes  again  caress  thee. 

Once  in  caution,  I  could  fly  thee ; 

Now,  I  nothing  could  deny  thee. 
In  a  look  if  death  there  be. 
Come,  and  I  will  gaze  on  thee  ! 

Maria  Gowen  Brooks. 


70 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


(3 


THE  SMACK  IN  SCHOOL 

DISTRICT  school,  not  far  away 
'Mid  Berkshire  hills,  one  winter's  day. 
Was  humming  witli  its  wonted  noise 
Of  three-score  mingled  girls  and  boys, 
Some  few  upon  their  tasks  intent, 
But  more  on  furtive  mischief  bent. 
The  while  the  master's  downward  look 
Was  fastened  on  a  copy-book  ; 
When  suddenly,  behind  his  back, 
Rose  sharp  and  clear  a  rousing  smack ! 
As  'twere  a  battery  of  bliss 
Let  off  in  one  tremendous  kiss  ! 
"  What's  that?"  the  startled  master  cries  ; 
"That,  thir,"  a  little  imp  replies, 
"  Wath  William  Willith,  if  you  pleathe — 
I  thaw  him  kith  Thuthanna  Peathe  !" 
With  frown  to  make  a  statue  thrill, 
The  master  thundered,  "Hither,  Will!" 
Like  wretch  o'ertaken  in  his  track, 
With  stolen  chattels  on  his  back. 
Will  hung  his  head  in  fear  and  shame. 
And  to  the  awful  presence  came — 
A  great,  green,  bashful  simpleton. 
The  butt  of  all  good-natured  fun. 
With  smile  suppressed,  and  birch  upraised, 
The  threatener  faltered — "  I'm  amazed 
That  you,  my  biggest  pupil,  should 
Be  gruilty  of  an  act  so  rude  ! 
Before  the  whole  set  school  to  boot — 
What  evil  genius  put  you  to't.?" 
"  'Twas  she  herself,  sir,"  sobbed  the  lad, 
"  I  did  not  mean  to  be  so  bad  ; 
But  when  Susannah  shook  her  curls, 
And  whispered  I  was  'fraid  of  girls. 
And  dursn't  kiss  a  baby's  doll, 
I  couldn't  stand  it,  sir,  at  all, 
But  up  and  kissed  her  on  the  spot ! 
I  know — boo-hoo — I  ought  to  not, 
But,  somehow,  from  her  looks — boo-hoo — 
I  thought  she  kind  o'  wished  me  to  ! " 

W.  P.  Palmer. 


FLY  TO  THE  DESERT,  FLY  WITH  ME. 


LY  to  the  desert,  fly  with  me, 
Our  Arab  tents  are  rude  for  thee  ; 
But  oh  !  the  choice  vi^hat  heart  can  doubt 
Of  tents  with  love  or  thrones  without  ? 

Our  rocks  are  rough,  but  smiling  there 
The  acacia  waves  her  yellow  hair, 
Lonely  and  sweet,  nor  loved  the  less 
For  flowering  in  a  wilderness. 

Our  sands  are  bare,  but  down  their  slope 
The  silvery-footed  antelope 
As  gracefully  and  gayly  springs 
As  o'er  the  marble  courts  of  kings. 


Then  come — thy  Arab  maid  will  be 
The  loved  and  lone  acacia-tree, 
The  antelope,  whose  feet  shall  bless 
With  their  light  sound  thy  loneliness. 

Oh  !  there  are  looks  and  tones  that  dart 
An  instant  sunshine  through  the  heart. 
As  if  the  soul  that  minute  caught 
Some  treasure  it  though  life  had  sought ; 

As  if  the  very  lips  and  eyes 
Predestined  to  have  all  our  sighs, 
And  never  be  forgot  again, 
Sparkled  and  spoke  before  as  then. 

So  came  thy  very  glance  and  tone, 
When  first  on  me  they  breathed  and  shone  ; 
New,  as  if  brought  from  other  spheres. 
Yet  welcome  as  if  loved  for  years. 

Thomas  Mpore. 


THE  QUIVER. 

ESTUS.    Lady  !  I  will  not  forget  my  trust. 

[Apart)  The  breeze  which  curls  the  lakes's 
bright  lip  but  lifts 

A  purer,  deeper,  water  to  the  light : 
The  ruffling  of  the  wild  bird's  wing  but  wakes 
A  warmer  beauty  and  a  downier  depth. 
That  startled  shrink,  that  faintest  blossom-blush 
Of  constancy  alarmed  ! — Love  !  if  thou  hast 
One  weapon  in  shining  armory, 
The  qi>iver  on  thy  shoulder,  where  thou  keep'st 
Each  arrowy  eye-beam  feathered  with  a  sigh  ; — 
If  from  that  bow,  shaped  so  like  Beauty's  lip, 
Strung  with  its  string  of  pearls,  thou  wilt  twang  forth 
But  one  dart,  fair  into  the  mark  I  mean — 
Do  it,  and  I  will  worship  thee  for  ever : 
Yea,  I  will  give  thee  glory  and  a  name 
Known,  sunlike  in  all  nations.    Heart  be  still ! 

Philip  James  Bailey.- 


m 


OTHELLO'S  DEFENCE. 

OST  potent,  grave,  and  reverend  signiors. 
My  very  noble  and  approved  good  masters. 
That  I  have  ta'en  away  this  old  man's  daugh- 
^  ter, 

It  is  most  true  ;  true,  I  have  married  her  ; 
The  very  head  and  front  of  my  offending 
Hath  this  extent,  no  more.     Rude  am  I  in  my  speech, 
And  little  bless'd  with  the  set  phrase  of  peace. 
For  since  these  arms  of  mine  had  seven  years'  pith, 
Till  now  some  nine  moons  wasted,  they  have  used 
Their  dearest  action  in  the  tented  field  : 
And  little  of  this  great  world  can  I  speak. 
More  than  pertains  to  feats  of  broil  and  battle  ; 
And  therefore  little  shall  I  grace  my  cause 
In  speaking  for  myself.     Yet,  by  your  gracious  patience. 
I  will  a  round  unvarnished  tale  deliver 


LOVE  AND   FRIENDSHIP. 


71 


Of  my  whole  course  of  love  ;  what  drugs,  what  charms, 
What  conjuration,  and  what  mighty  magic, 
(For  such  proceeding  I  am  charged  withal,) 
I  won  his  daughter  with. 

Her  father  loved  me,  oft  invited  me  ; 

Still  questioned  me  the  story  of  my  life. 

From  year  to  year  ;  the  battles,  sieges,  fortunes. 

That  I  have  passed. 

I  ran  it  through,  even  fropi  my  boyish  days. 

To  the  very  moment  that  he  bade  me  tell  it ; 

Wherein  I  spoke  of  most  disastrous  chances, 

Of  moving  accidents,  by  flood  and  field  ; 

Of  hairbreadth  'scapes  in  the  imminent  deadly  breach  ; 

Of  being  taken  by  the  insolent  foe, 

And  sold  to  slavery  ;  of  my  redemption  thence, 

And  portance  in  my  travel's  history  : 

Wherein  of  antres  vast,  and  deserts  idle. 

Rough  quarries,  rocks,  and  hills  whose  heads  touch 
heaven. 

It  was  my  hint  to  speak,  such  was  the  process  : 

And  of  the  Cannibals  that  each  other  eat, 

The  Anthropophagi,  and  men  whose  heads 

Do  grow  beneath  their  shoulders.    These  things  to 
hear 

Would  Desdemona  seriously  incline  : 

But  still  the  house  affairs  would  draw  her  thence  ; 

Which  ever  as  she  could  with  haste  despatch. 

She'd  come  again,  and  with  a  greedy  ear 

Devour  up  my  discourse  :  which,  I  observing, 

Took  once  a  pliant  hour,  and  found  good  means 

To  draw  from  her  a  prayer  of  earnest  heart, 

That  I  would  all  my  pilgrimage  dilate. 

Whereof  by  parcels  she  had  something  heard, 

But  not  intentively :  I  did  consent ; 

And  often  did  beguile  her  of  her  tears. 

When  I  did  speak  of  some  distressful  stroke 

That  my  youth  suffer'd.     My  story  being  done. 

She  gave  me  for  my  pains  a  world  of  sighs  : 

She  swore — in  faith,  'twas  strange,  'twas  passing  strange, 

'Twas  pitiful,  'twas  wondrous  pitiful : — 

She  wished  she  had  not  heard  it ;  yet  she  wished 

That  heaven  had  made  her  such  a  man  ;  she  thank'd 

me  ; 
And  bade  me,  if  I  had  a  friend  that  loved  her, 
I  should  but  teach  him  how  to  tell  my  story, 
And  that  would  woo  her.    Upon  this  hint,  I  spake  : 
She  loved  me  for  the  dangers  I  had  passed, 
And  I  loved  her  that  she  did  pity  them. 
This  only  is  the  witchcraft  I  have  used  : 
Here  comes  the  lady,  let  her  witness  it. 

William  Shakspeare. 

FRIENDSHIP. 

NVIDIOCS  grave ! — how  -iost  thou  rend  in  sunder 
Whom  love  has  knit,  and  sympathy  made  one ! 
A  tie  more  stubborn  far  than  nature's  band. 
Friendship !  mysterious  cement  of  the  soul ; 


Sweetener  of  life,  and  solder  of  society, 

I  owe  thee  much.    Thou  hast  deserved  from  me 

Far,  far  beyond  what  I  can  ever  pay. 

Oft  have  I  proved  the  labors  of  thy  love, 

And  the  warm  efforts  of  the  gentle  heart. 

Anxious  to  please. — Oh  !  when  my  friend  and  I 

In  some  thick  wood  have  wander' d  heedless  on. 

Hid  from  the  vulgar  eye^  and  sat  us  down 

Upon  the  sloping  cowslip-cover' d  bank, 

Where  the  pure  limpid  stream  has  slid  along 

In  grateful  errors  through  the  underwood. 

Sweet  murmuring :  methought  the  shrill-tongued  thrush 

Mended  his  song  of  love ;  the  sooty  blackbird 

Mellow'd  his  pipe,  and  soften'd  every  note : 

The  eglantine  smell'd  sweeter,  and  the  rose 

Assumed  a  dye  more  deep ;  whilst  every  flower 

Vied  with  its  fellow  plant  in  luxury 

Of  dress Oh  !  then,  the  longest  summer's  day 

Seem'd  too,  too  much  in  haste ;  still  the  full  heart 
Had  not  imparted  half:  'twas  happiness 
Too  exquisite  to  last.     Of  joys  departed, 
Not  to  return,  how  painful  the  remembrance ! 

Robert  Blair. 


EUPHROSYNE. 

MUST  not  say  that  thou  wert  true. 
Yet  let  me  say  that  thou  wert  fair. 
And  they  that  lovely  face  who  view, 
They  will  not  ask  if  truth  be  there. 

Truth — what  is  truth  !    Two  bleeding  hearts 
Wounded  by  men,  by  fortune  tried, 
Outwearied  with  their  lonely  parts, 
Vow  to  beat  henceforth  side  by  side. 

The  world  to  them  was  stern  and  drear : 
Their  lot  was  but  to  weep  and  moan. 
Ah,  let  them  keep  their  faith  sincere, 
For  neither  could  subsist  alone  ! 

But  souls  whom  some  benignant  breath 
Has  charm'd  at  birth  from  bloom  and  care. 
These  ask  no  love — these  plight  no  faith, 
For  they  are  happy  as  they  are. 

The  world  to  them  may  homage  make. 
And  garlands  for  their  forehead  weave  , 
And  what  the  world  can  give,  they  take — 
But  they  bring  more  than  they  receive. 

They  smile  upon  the  world  ;  their  ears 
To  one  demand  alone  are  coy. 
They  will  not  give  us  love  and  tears — 
They  bring  us  light,  and  warmth,  and  joy. 

On  one  she  smiled  and  he  was  blest ! 
She  smiles  elsewhere — we  make  a  din  ! 
But  'twas  not  love  that  heaved  his  breast. 
Fair  child  !  it  was  the  bliss  within. 

Matthew  Arnold. 


72 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


THEY  SIN  WHO  TELL  US  LOVE  CAN  DIE. 

HEY  sin  who  tell  us  love  can  die 
With  life  all  other  passions  fly — 
All  others  are  but  vanity. 
In  heaven  ambition  cannot  dwell, 
Nor  avarice  in  the  vaults  of  hell : 
Earthly,  these  passions  of  the  earth, 
They  perish  where  they  had  their  birth  ; 
But  love  is  indestructible. 
Its  holy  flame  for  ever  bumeth  ; 
From  heaven  it  came,  to  heaven  returneth. 
Too  oft  on  earth  a  troubled  guest, 
At  times  deceived,  at  times  oppressed, 
It  here  is  tried  and  purified, 
Then  hath  in  heaven  its  perfect  rest. 
It  soweth  here  with  toil  and  care, 
But  the  harvest-time  of  love  is  there. 

Robert  Southev. 

TO  HIS  WIFE. 

H  !  hadst  thou  never  shared  my  fate, 
More  dark  that  fate  would  prove. 
My  heart  were  truly  desolate 
Without  thy  soothing  love. 

But  thou  hast  suffer'd  for  my  sake, 

Whilst  this  relief  I  found, 
Like  fearless  lips  that  strive  to  take 
The  poison  from  a  wound. 

My  fond  affection  thou  hast  seen, 

Then  judge  of  my  regret, 
To  think  more  happy  thou  hadst  been 

If  we  had  never  met. 

And  has  that  thought  been  shared  by  thee  ? 

Ah,  no  !  that  smiling  cheek 
Proves  more  unchanging  love  for  me 

Than  labor' d  words  could  speak. 

But  there  are  true  hearts  which  the  sight 

Of  sorrow  summons  forth  ; 
Though  known  in  days  of  past  delight, 

We  know  not  half  their  worth. 

How  unlike  some  who  have  profess'd 

So  much  in  friendship's  name, 
Yet  calmly  pause  to  think  how  best 

They  may  evade  her  claim. 

But  ah !  from  them  to  thee  I  turn, 
They'd  make  me  loathe  mankind, 

Far  better  lessons  I  may  learn 
From  thy  more  holy  mind. 

The  love  that  gives  a  charm  to  home, 

I  feel  they  cannot  take  ; 
We'll  pray  for  happier  years  to  come, 

For  one-another's  sake. 

Thomas  Havnes  Bavlv. 


LAMENT  OF  THE  IRISH  EMIGRANT. 

'M  sitting  on  the  stile,  Mary, 
Where  we  sat  side  by  side 
On  a  bright  May  morning,  long  ago. 
When  first  you  were  my  bride  ; 
The  corn  was  springing  fresh  and  green, 

And  the  lark  sang  loud  and  high  ; 
And  the  red  was  on  your  lip,  Mary, 
And  the  love-light  in  your  eye. 

The  place  is  little  changed,  Mary, 

The  day  as  bright  as  then  ; 
The  lark's  loud  song  is  in  my  ear, 

And  the  corn  is  green  again  ; 
But  I  miss  the  soft  clasp  of  your  hand, 

And  your  breath  warm  on  my  cheek  ; 
And  I  still  keep  listening  for  the  words 

You  never  more  will  speak. 

'Tis  but  a  step  down  yonder  lane,  ' 

And  the  little  church  stands  near — 
The  church  where  we  were  wed,  Mary  ; 

I  see  the  spire  from  here. 
But  the  graveyard  lies  between  them,  Mary, 

And  my  step  might  break  your  rest — 
For  I've  laid  you,  darling,  down  to  sleep, 

With  your  baby  on  your  breast. 

I'm  very  lonely  now,  Mary, 

For  the  poor  make  no  new  friends  : 
But,  oh  !  they  love  the  better  still 

The  few  our  Father  sends  ! 
And  you  were  all  I  had,  Mary — 

My  blessing  and  my  pride  ; 
There's  nothing  left  to  care  for  now, 

Since  my  poor  Mary  died. 

Yours  was  the  good,  brave  heart,  Mary, 

That  still  kept  hoping  on, 
When  the  trust  in  God  had  left  my  soul, 

And  my  arm's  young  strength  was  gone  ; 
There  was  comfort  ever  on  your  lip, 

And  the  kind  look  on  your  brow — 
I  bless  you,  Mary,  for  that  same, 

Tho'  you  cannot  hear  me  now. 

I  thank  you  for  the  patient  smile 

When  your  heart  was  fit  to  break — 
When  the  hunger  pain  was  gnawing  there, 

And  you  did  it  for  my  sake  ; 
I  bless  you  for  the  pleasant  word, 

When  your  heart  was  sad  and  sore — 
Oh  !  I'm  thankful  you  are  gone,  Mary, 

Where  grief  can't  reach  you  more  ! 

I'm  bidding  you  a  long  farewell, 

My  Mary — kind  and  true  ! 
But  I'll  not  forget  you  darling. 

In  the  land  I'm  going  to  ; 


LOVE  AND   FRIENDSHIP. 


73 


They  say  there's  bread  and  work  for  all, 

And  the  sun  shines  always  there — 
But  I'll  not  forget  old  Ireland, 

Were  it  filty  times  as  fair. 

And  often  in  those  grand  old  woods 

I'll  sit  and  shut  my  eyes, 
And  my  heart  will  travel  back  again 

To  the  place  where  Mary  lies  ; 
And  111  think  I  see  the  little  stile 

Where  we  sat  side  by  side, 
And  the  springing  corn,  and  the  bright  May  morn 

When  first  you  were  my  bride. 

Helen  Selina  Sheridan. 


#), 


THE  FICKLENESS  OF  PHYLLIS. 

E  shepherds,  give  ear  to  my  lay. 

And  take  no  more  heed  of  my  sheep ; 
They  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  stray  ; 
I  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  weep. 
Yet  do  not  my  foUy  reprove  ; 

She  was  fair — and  my  passion  begun  ; 
She  smiled — and  I  could  not  but  love  ; 
She  is  faithless — and  I  am  undone. 


Perhaps  I  was  void  of  all  thought : 

Perhaps  it  was  plain  to  foresee, 
That  a  nymph  so  complete  would  be  sought, 

By  a  swain  more  engaging  than  me. 
Ah  !  love  every  hope  can  inspire  ; 

It  banishes  wisdom  the  while  ; 
And  the  lip  of  the  nymph  we  admire 

Seems  for  ever  adorn'd  with  a  smile. 

She  is  faithless,  and  I  am  undone  ; 

Ye  that  witness  the  woes  I  endure, 
Let  reason  instruct  you  to  shun 

What  it  cannot  instruct  you  to  cure. 
Beware  how  you  loiter  in  vain 

Amid  nymphs  of  a  higher  degree  : 
It  is  not  for  me  to  explain 

How  fair,  and  how  fickle  they  be. 

Alas  !  from  the  day  that  we  met, 

What  hope  of  an  end  to  my  woes  ? 
When  I  cannot  endure  to  forget 

The  glance  that  undid  my  repose. 
Yet  time  may  diminish  the  pain  : 

The  flower,  and  the  shrub,  and  the  tree. 
Which  I  rear'd  for  her  pleasure  in  vain. 

In  time  may  have  comfort  for  me. 

The  sweets  of  a  dew-sprinkled  rose. 

The  sound  of  a  murmuring  stream. 
The  peace  which  from  solitude  flows, 

Henceforth  shall  be  Corydon's  theme. 
High  transports  are  shown  to  the  sight. 

But  we  are  not  to  find  them  our  own  ; 
Fate  never  bestow'd  such  delight, 

As  I  with  my  Phyllis  had  known. 


0  ye  woods,  spread  your  branches  apace  ; 
To  your  deepest  recesses  I  fly  ; 

1  would  hide  with  the  beasts  of  the  chase  ; 
I  would  vanish  from  every  eye. 

Yet  my  reed  shall  resound  through  the  grove 
With  the  same  sad  complaint  it  begun  ; 

How  she  smiled — and  I  could  not  but  love  ; 
Was  faithless — and  I  am  undone  ! 

William  Shenstone. 

LOVE'S  YOUNG  DREAM. 

THE  days  are  gone,  when  beauty  bright 
My  heart's  chain  wove  ; 
When  my  dream  of  life,  from  morn  till 
night, 
Was  love,  still  love. 

New  hope  may  bloom. 
And  days  may  come, 
Of  milder,  calmer  beam  ; 
But  there's  nothing  half  so  sweet  in  life 
As  love's  young  dream. 

Thomas  Moore. 


¥ 


m 


MAID  OF  ATHENS. 

AID  of  Athens,  ere  we  part, 
Give,  O,  give  me  back  my  heart ! 
Or,  since  that  has  left  my  breast, 
Keep  it  now,  and  take  the  rest ! 
Hear  my  vow  before  I  go. 

By  those  tresses  unconfined, 
Woo'd  by  each  ^gean  wind  ; 
By  those  lids  whose  jetty  fringe 
Kiss  thy  soft  cheeks'  blooming  tinge  ; 
By  those  wild  eyes  like  the  roe  ; 

By  that  lip  I  long  to  taste  ; 
By  that  zone-encircled  waist ; 
By  all  the  token-flowers  that  tell 
What  words  can  never  speak  so  well ; 
By  love's  alternate  joy  and  woe. 

Maid  of  Athens  !  I  am  gone. 
Think  of  me,  sweet,  when  alone. 
Though  I  fly  to  Istambol, 
Athens  holds  my  heart  and  soul. 
Can  I  cease  to  love  thee  ?  No  ! 

Lord  Byron. 

FIRST  LOVE'S~RECOLLECTIONS. 


IRST-LOVE  will  with  the  heart  remain 
When  its  hopes  are  all  gone  by  ; 
As  frail  rose  blossoms  still  retain 
Their  fragrance  when  they  die  : 
And  joy's  first  dreams  will  haunt  the  mind 
With  the  shades  'mid  which  they  sprung. 
As  summer  leaves  the  stems  behind 
On  which  spring's  blossoms  hung. 

John  Clare. 


74 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP. 

HE  birds,  when  winter  shades  the  sky, 
Fly  o'er  the  seas  away. 
Where  laughing  isles  in  sunshine  lie, 
And  summer  breezes  play  ; 

And  thus  the  friends  that  flutter  near 

While  fortune's  sun  is  warm 
Are  startled  if  a  cloud  appear, 

And  fly  before  the  storm. 

But  when  from  winter's  howling  plains 

Each  other  warbler's  past, 
The  little  snow  bird  still  remains, 

And  chirrups  midst  the  blast. 

Love,  like  that  bird,  when  friendship's  throng 

With  fortune's  sun  depart, 
Still  lingers  with  its  cheerful  song. 

And  nestles  on  the  heart. 

William  Leggett. 


-THE  HEAVENLY  FLAME. 

ifT^  OVE  is  the  root  of  creation  ;    God's    essence. 
•^*  r  Worlds  without  number 

■*"^     Lie  in  his  bosom  like  children:  He  made  them 

for  His  purpose  only- 
Only  to  love  and  to  be  loved  again.  He  breathed  forth 

His  spirit 
Into  the  slumbering  dust,    and   upright  standing,    it 

laid  its 
Hand  on  its  heart,  and  felt  it  was  warm  with  a  flame 

out  of  heaven ; 
Quench,  O  quench  not  that  flame !  it  is  the  breath  of 

your  being. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


BILL  MASON'S  BRIDE. 

'ALF  an  hour  till  train  time,  sir, 
An'  a  fearful  dark  time,  too  ; 
Take  a  look  at  the  switch  lights,  Tom, 
Fetch  in  a  stick  when  you're  through. 
"  On  time  ?"  well,  yes,  I  guess  so — 
Left  the  last  station  all  right — 
She'll  come  round  the  curve  a  flyin' ; 
Bill  Mason  comes  up  to-night. 

You  know  Bill  ?  No  !  He's  engineer, 

Been  on  the  road  all  his  life — 
I'll  never  forget  the  mornin' 

He  married  his  chuck  of  a  wife. 
'Twas  the  summer  the  mill  hands  struck — 

Just  ofT  work,  every  one  ; 
They  kicked  up  a  row  in  the  village 

And  killed  old  Donevan's  son. 

Bill  hadn't  been  married  mor'n  an  hour, 
Up  comes  a  message  from  Kress, 


Orderin'  Bill  to  go  up  there, 
And  bring  down  the  night  express. 

He  left  his  gal  in  a  hurry. 
And  went  up  on  Number  One, 

Thinking  of  nothing  but  Mary, 
And  the  train  he  had  to  run. 

And  Mary  sat  down  by  the  window 

To  wait  for  the  night  e.xpress  ; 
And,  sir,  if  she  hadn't  a'  done  so, 

She'd  been  a  widow,  I  guess. 
For  it  must  a'  been  nigh  midnight 

When  the  mill  hands  left  the  Ridge — 
They  come  down — the  drunken  devils  ! 

Tore  up  a  rail  from  the  bridge. 
But  Mary  heard  'em  a  workin' 

And  guessed  there  was  somethin'  wrong — 
And  in  less  than  fifteen  minutes. 

Bill's  train  it  would  be  along. 

She  couldn't  come  here  to  tell  us. 

A  mile — it  wouldn't  a'  done — 
So  she  just  grabbed  up  a  lantern. 

And  made  for  the  bridge  alone. 
Then  down  came  the  night  express,  sir. 

And  Bill  was  makin'  her  climb  ! 
But  Mary  held  the  lantern, 

A-swingin'  it  all  the  time. 

Well !  by  Jove  !  Bill  saw  the  signal, 

And  he  stopped  the  night  express, 
And  he  found  his  Mary  cryin', 

On  the  track,  in  her  wedding  dress  ; 
Cryin'  an'  laughin'  for  joy,  sir, 

An'  holdin'  on  to  the  light — 
Hello  !  here's  the  train — good-bye,  sir, 

Bill  Mason's  on  time  to-night. 

F.  Bret  Harte. 


BEDOUIN  SONG. 

ROM  the  desert  I  come  to  thee 
On  a  stallion  shod  with  fire  ; 
And  the  winds  are  left  behind 

In  the  speed  of  my  desire. 
Under  thy  window  I  stand, 

And  the  midnight  hears  my  cry  : 
I  love  thee,  I  love  but  thee. 
With  a  love  that  shall  not  die 
/  Till  the  sun  grows  cold. 

And  the  stars  are  old. 
And  the  leaves  of  the  Judgment 
Book  unfold ! 

Look  from  thy  window  and  see 

My  passion  and  my  pain  ; 
I  lie  on  the  sands  below, 

And  I  faint  in  thy  disdain. 
Let  the  night-winds  touch  thy  brow 

With  the  heat  of  my  burning  sigh. 
And  melt  thee  to  hear  the  vow 


LOVE  AND   FRIENDSHIP. 


75 


Of  a  love  that  shall  not  die 

Till  the  sun  grows  cold. 
And  the  stars  are  old, 
And  the  leaves  of  the  Judgment 
Book  unfold  ! 

Mjf  steps  are  nightly  driven, 
By  the  fever  in  my  breast, 
To  hear  from  thy  lattice  breathed 

The  word  that  shall  give  me  rest. 
Open  the  door  of  thy  heart, 

And  open  thy  chamber  door. 
And  my  kisses  shall  teach  thy  lips 
The  love  that  shall  fade  no  more 
Till  the  sun  grows  cold, 
And  the  stars  are  old. 
And  the  leaves  of  the  Judgment 
Book  unfold  ! 

Bayard  Taylor. 


'TIS  THE  LAST  ROSE  OF  SUMMER. 


IS  the  last  rose  of  summer 

Left  blooming  alone ; 
All  her  lovely  companions 

Are  faded  and  gone  ; 
No  flower  of  her  kindred, 

No  rosebud  is  nigh. 
To  reflect  back  her  blushes, 

Or  give  sigh  for  sigh  ! 

I'll  not  leave  thee,  thou  lone  one, 

To  pine  on  the  stem  ; 
Since  the  lovely  are  sleeping. 

Go,  sleep  thou  with  them. 
Thus  kindly  I  scatter 

Thy  leaves  o'er  the  bed 
Where  thy  mates  of  the  garden 

Lie  scentless  and  dead. 

So  soon  may  I  follow, 

When  friendships  decay. 
And  from  love's  shining  circle 

The  gems  drop  away  ! 
When  true  hearts  lie  wither'd. 

And  fond  ones  are  flown, 
Oh  !  who  would  inhabit 

This  bleak  world  alone  ? 

Thomas  Moore. 


GENTLEST  GIRL. 

.ENTLESTgirl, 

Thou  wert  a  bright  creation  of  my  thought, 
In  earliest  childhood — and  my  seeking  soul 
Wander' d  ill-satisfied,  till  one  blest  day 
Thine  image  pass'd  athwart  it — thou  wert  then 
A  young  and  happy  child,  sprightly  as  life  ; 
Yet  not  so  bright  or  beautiful  as  that 
Mine  inward  vision  ;  —but  a  whispering  voice 


Said  softly — ^This  is  she  whom  thou  didst  choose  ; 

And  thenceforth  ever,  through  the  mom  of  life, 

Thou  wert  my  playmate — thou  my  only  joy, 

Thou  my  chief  sorrow  when  I  saw  thee  not. — 

And  when  my  daily  consciousness  of  life  / 

Was  bom  and  died — thy  name  the  last  went  up, 

Thy  name  the  first,  before  our  Heavenly  Guide, 

For  favor  and  protection.     All  the  flowers 

Whose  buds  I  cherish'd,  and  in  summer  heats 

Fed  with  mock  showers,  and  proudly  show'd  their 

bloom. 
For  thee  I  rear'd,  because  all  beautiful 
And  gentle  things  reminded  me  of  thee  : 
Yea,  and  the  morning,  and  the  rise  of  sun, 
And  the  fall  of  evening,  and  the  starry  host, 
If  aught  I  loved,  I  loved  because  thy  name 
Sounded  about  me  when  I  look'd  on  them. 

Dean  Alford. 


THE  PARTING  KISS. 

NE  kind  wish  before  we  part, 
Drop  a  tear  and  bid  adieu  : 
Though  we  sever,  my  fond  heart, 
Till  we  meet,  shall  pant  for  you. 

Yet,  yet  weep  not  so,  my  love, 
Let  me  kiss  that  falling  tear  ; 

Though  my  body  must  remove, 
All  my  soul  will  still  be  here. 

All  my  soul,  and  all  my  heart, 

And  every  wish  shall  pant  for  you ; 

One  kind  kiss,  then,  ere  we  part, 
Drop  a  tear,  and  bid  adieu. 

Robert  Dodsley. 


NO  HEART  WITHOUT  ITS  MATE. 

'HE  bard  has  sung,  God  never  form'd  a  soul 
Without  its  own  peculiar  mate,  to  meet 
Its  wandering  half^  when  ripe  to  crown  the 
"^  whole 

Bright  plan  of  bliss,  most  heavenly,  most  complete ! 

Bui  thousand  evil  things  there  are  that  hate 
To  look  on  happiness  :  these  hurt,  impede, 

And,  leagued  with   time,  space,  circumstance  and  fate, 
Keep  kindred  heart  from  heart,  to  pine,  and  pant, 
and  bleed. 

And  as  the  dove  to  far  Palmyra  flying 
From  where  her  native  founts  of  Antioch  beam. 

Weary,  exhausted,  longing,  panting,  sighing, 
Lights  sadly  at  the  desert's  bitter  stream  ; 

So  many  a  soul,  o'er  life's  dreary  desert  faring, 

Love's  pure  congenial  spring  unfound,  unquaflf'd. 
Suffers,  recoils,  then,  thirsty,  and  despairing 
Of  what  it  would,   descends  and  sips  the  nearest 
draught. 

Maria  Brooks. 


76 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


ON  AN  OLD  WEDDING-RING. 

The  Device.— Two  hearts  united. 

The  Motto.— Dear  love  of  mine,  my  heart  is  thine. 

LIKE  that  ring — that  ancient  ring, 
Of  massive  form,  and  virgin  gold, 
As  firm,  as  free  from  base  alloy 
As  were  the  sterling  hearts  of  old. 
I  like  it— for  it  wafts  me  back, 

Far,  far  along  the  stream  of  time, 
To  other  men,  and  other  days. 
The  men  and  days  of  deeds  sublime. 

But  most  I  like  it,  as  it  tells 

The  tale  of  well-requited  love  ; 
How  youthful  fondness  persevered. 

And  youthful  faith  disdain' d  to  rove — 
How  warmly  he  his  suit  preferr'd. 

Though  she,  unpitying,  long  denied, 
Till,  soften'd  and  subdued  at  last. 

He  won  his  "fair  and  blooming  bride." — 

How,  till  the  appointed  day  arrived, 

They  blamed  the  lazy-footed  hours — 
How,  then,  the  white-robed  maiden  train 

Strew'd  their  glad  way  with  freshest  flowers— 
And  how,  before  the  holy  man. 

They  stood,  in  all  their  youthful  pride. 
And  spoke  those  words,  and  vow'd  those  vows. 

Which  bind  the  husband  to  his  bride  : 

All  this  it  tells  ;  the  plighted  troth— 

The  gift  of  every  earthly  thing— 
The  hand  in  hand— the  heart  in  heart- 

For  this  I  like  that  ancient  ring. 
I  like  its  old  and  quaint  device  ; 

"Two  blended  hearts  "—though  time  may  wear 
them, 
No  mortal  change,  no  mortal  chance, 

"Till  death,"  shall  e'er  in  sunder  tear  them. 

Year  after  year,  'neath  sun  and  storm. 
Their  hope  in  heaven,  their  trust  in  God, 

In  changeless,  heartfelt,  holy,  love. 
These  two  the  world's  rough  pathway  trod. 

Age  might  impair  their  youthful  fires. 
Their  strength  might  fail,  'mid  life's  bleak  weather. 

Still,  hand  in  hand,  they  travell'd  on- 
Kind  souls  !  they  slumber  now  together. 

I  like  its  simple  poesy,  too, 

"  Mine  own  dear  love,  this  heart  is  thine !" 
Thine,  when  the  dark  storm  howls  along. 

As  when  the  cloudless  sunbeams  shine, 
"This heart  is  thine,  mine  own  dear  love  !" 

Thine,  and  thine  only,  and  forever : 
Thine,  till  the  springs  of  life  shall  fail ; 

Thine,  till  the  cords  of  life  shall  sever. 
Remnant  of  days  departed  long. 

Emblem  of  plighted  troth  unbroken, 


Pledge  of  devoted  faithfulness. 

Of  heartfelt,  holy  love,  the  token : 
What  varied  feelings  round  it  cling  !— 
For  these,  I  like  that  ancient  ring. 

George  Washington  Doank. 


u 


EDWIN  AND  ANGELINA. 

'URN,  gentle  hermit  of  the  dale, 
And  guide  my  lonely  way 
To  where  yon  taper  cheers  the  vale 
"f'  With  hospitable  ray. 

For  here  forlorn  and  lost  I  tread. 
With  fainting  steps  and  slow  ; 

Where  wilds  immeasurably  spread, 
Seem  lengthening  as  I  go." 

"  Forbear,  my  son,"  the  hermit  cries, 
"  To  tempt  the  dangerous  gloom  ; 
For  yonder  phantom  only  flies 
To  lure  thee  to  thy  doom. 

Here,  to  the  houseless  child  of  want. 

My  door  is  open  still ; 
And  though  my  portion  is  but  scant, 

I  give  it  with  good  will. 

Then  turn  to-night,  and  freely  share 

Whate'er  my  cell  bestows  ; 
My  rushy  couch  and  frugal  fare, 

My  blessing  and  repose. 

No  flocks  that  range  the  valley  free. 

To  slaughter  I  condemn  ; 
Taught  by  that  power  that  pities  me, 

I  learn  to  pity  ^hem. 

But  from  the  mountain's  grassy  side, 

A  guiltless  feast  I  bring  ; 
A  scrip,  with  herbs  and  fruits  supplied. 

And  water  from  the  spring. 

Then,  pilgrim,  turn,  thy  cares  forego  ; 

All  earth-born  cares  are  wrong  : 
Man  wants  but  little  here  below. 

Nor  wants  that  little  long." 

Soft,  as  the  dew  from  heaven  descends. 

His  gentle  accents  fell  ; 
The  modest  stranger  lowly  bends. 

And  follows  to  the  cell. 

Far  in  a  wilderness  obscure. 

The  lonely  mansion  lay  ; 
A  refuge  to  the  neighboring  poor. 

And  strangers  led  astray. 

Around,  in  sympathetic  mirth. 

Its  tricks  the  kitten  tries  ; 
The  cricket  cherubs  in  the  hearth. 

The  crackling  faggot  flies. 


LOVE  AND   FRIENDSHIP. 


77 


But  nothing  could  a  charm  impart, 
To  soothe  the  stranger's  woe  ; 

For  grief  was  heavy  at  his  heart, 
And  tears  began  to  flow. 

His  rising  cares  the  hermit  spied, 
With  answering  care  opprest : 
"  And  whence,  imhappyyouth,"  he  cried, 
"The  sorrows  of  thy  breast? 

From  better  habitations  spum'd, 
Reluctant  dost  thou  rove  ? 
.    Or  grieve  for  friendship  unretum'd, 
Or  unregarded  love  ? 

Alas  !  the  joys  that  fortune  brings 

Are  trifling  and  decay  ; 
And  those  who  prize  the  paltry  things 

More  trifling  still  than  they. 

And  what  is  friendship  but  a  name  : 

A  charm  that  lulls  to  sleep  ! 
A  shade  that  follows  wealth  or  fame. 

And  leaves  the  wretch  to  weep. 

And  love  is  still  an  emptier  sound. 

The  modern  fair-one's  jest. 
On  earth  unseen,  or  only  found 

To  warm  the  turtle's  nest. 

For  shame,  fond  youth,  thy  sorrows  hush. 
And  spurn  the  sex,"  he  said  : 

But  while  he  spoke,  a  rising  blush 
His  love-lorn  guest  betray'd. 

Surprised,  he  sees  new  beauties  rise, 

Swift  mantling  to  the  view. 
Like  colors  o'er  the  morning  skies, 

As  bright,  as  transient  too. 

The  bashful  look,  the  rising  breast. 

Alternate  spread  alarms  ; 
The  lovely  stranger  stands  confess'd 

A  maid  in  all  her  charms. 

"  And  ah  !  forgive  a  stranger  rude, 

A  wretch  forlorn,"  she  cried, 
"Whose  feet  unhallow'd  thus  intrude 

Where  heaven  and  you  reside. 

But  let  a  maid  thy  pity  share. 
Whom  love  has  taught  to  stray  : 

Who  seeks  for  rest,  but  finds  despair 
Companion  of  her  way. 

My  father  lived  beside  the  Tyne, 

A  wealthy  lord  was  he  ; 
And  all  his  wealth  was  mark'd  as  mine  ; 

He  had  but  only  me. 

To  win  me  from  his  tender  arms, 
Unnumber'd  suitors  came ; 


Who  praised  me  for  imputed  charms, 
And  felt,  or  feign'd,  a  flame. 

Each  hour  a  mercenary  crowd 

With  richest  profiers  strove  ; 
Amongst  the  rest  young  Edwin  bow'd, 

But  never  talk'd  of  love. 

In  humblest,  simplest  habit  clad. 

No  wealth  nor  power  had  he  : 
Wisdom  nnd  worth  were  all  he  had  ; 

But  these  were  all  to  me. 

The  blossom  opening  to  the  day. 

The  dews  of  heaven  refined, 
Could  naught  of  purity  display, 

To  emulate  his  mind. 

The  dew,  the  blossoms  of  the  tree, 
With  charms  inconstant  shine  ; 

Their  charms  were  his  ;  but  woe  to  me, 
Their  constancy  was  mine. 

For  still  I  tried  each  fickle  art. 

Importunate  and  vain ; 
And  while  his  passion  touch'd  my  heart, 

I  triumph'd  in  his  pain. 

Till  quite  dejected  with  my  scorn. 

He  left  me  to  my  pride  ; 
And  sought  a  solitude  forlorn. 

In  secret,  where  he  died  ! 

But  mine  the  sorrow,  mine  the  fault. 

And  well  my  life  shall  pay : 
I'll  seek  the  solitude  he  sought, 

And  stretch  me  where  he  lay. 

And  there,  forlorn,  despairing,  hid, 

I'll  lay  me  down  and  die  : 
'Twas  so  for  me  that  Edwin  did. 

And  so  for  him  will  I." 

"Forbid  it,  Heaven!"  the  hermit  cried, 
And  clasp'd  her  to  his  breast : 
The  wondering  fair  one  turn'd  to  chide  : 
'Twas  Edwin's  self  that  prest ! 

"Turn,  Angelina,  ever  dear. 
My  charmer,  turn  to  see 
Thy  own,  thy  long-lost  Edwin  heret 
Restored  to  love  and  thee. 

Thus  let  me  hold  thee  to  my  heart, 

And  every  care  resign  ; 
And  shall  we  never,  never  part. 

My  life — my  all  that's  mine  ? 

No,  never  from  this  hour  to  part. 

We'll  live  and  love  so  true ; 
The  sigh  that  rends  thy  constant  heart, 

Shall  break  thy  Edwin  s  too." 

Oliver  Goldsmith. 


CROWN*  JEWELS. 


ALL  FOR  LOVE. 

TALK  not  to  me  of  a  name  great  in  story  ; 
The  days  of  our  youth  are  the  days  of  our 
glory ; 
And  the  myrtle  and  ivy  •  of  sweet  two-and- 
twenty 
Are  worth  all  your  laurels,  though  ever  so  plenty. 

What  are  garlands  and  crowns  to  the  brow  that  is 

wrinkled  ? 
'Tis  but  as  a  dead  flower  with  May-dew  besprinkled  : 
Then  away  with  all  such  from  the  head  that  is  hoary — 
What  care  I  for  the  wreaths  that  can  only  give  glory  ? 

0  Fame  ! — if  I  e'er  took  delight  in  thy  praises, 
'Twas  less  for  the  sake  of  thy  high-sounding  phrases, 
Than  to  see  the  bright  eyes  of  the  dear  one  discover 
She  thought  that  I  was  not  unworthy  to  love  her. 

There  chiefly  I  sought  thee,  there  only  I  found  thee  ; 
Her  glance  was  the  best  of  the  rays  that  surround  thee ; 
When  it  sparkled  o'er  aught  that  was  bright  in  my  story, 

1  knew  it  was  love,  and  I  felt  it  was  glory. 

Lord  Byron. 

LOVE  WILL  FIND  OUT  THE  WAY. 

VER  the  mountains, 

And  under  the  waves, 
Over  the  fountains. 

And  under  the  graves. 
Under  floods  which  are  deepest, 

Which  Neptune  obey. 
Over  rocks  which  are  steepest, 
Love  will  find  out  the  way. 

Where  there  is  no  place 

For  the  glow-worm  to  lie, 
Where  there  is  no  place 

For  the  receipt  of  a  fly, 
Where  the  gnat  dares  not  venture, 

Lest  herself  fast  she  lay. 
If  Love  come  he  will  enter, 

And  fi'nd  out  the  way. 

If  that  he  were  hidden, 

And  all  men  that  are. 
Were  strictly  forbidden 

That  place  to  declare  : 
Winds  that  have  no  abidings, 

Pitying  their  delay, 
Would  come  and  bring  him  tidings, 

And  direct  him  the  way. 

If  the  earth  should  part  him, 

He  would  gallop  it  o'er  ; 
If  the  seas  should  o'erthwart  him, 

He  would  swim  to  the  shore. 
Should  his  love  become  a  swallow. 

Through  the  air  to  stray. 
Love  will  lend  wings  to  follow, 

And  will  find  out  the  way. 


There  is  no  striving 

To  cross  his  intent. 
There  is  no  contriving 

His  plots  to  prevent ; 
The  letter  his  heart's  vows  stating, 

No  closed  gates  delay 
From  the  hand  that  is  waiting ; 

Love  will  find  out  the  way. 

WE  HAVE  BEEN  FRIENDS  TOGETHER. 


W 


E  have  been  friends  together, 
In  sunshine  and  in  shade  ; 
Since  first  beneath  the  chestnut  trees 
In  infancy  we  play'd. 
But  coldness  dwells  within  thy  heart — 

A  cloud  is  on  thy  brow  ; 
We  have  been  friends  together — 
Shall  a  light  word  part  us  now  ? 

We  have  been  gay  together  ; 

We  have  laugh'd  at  little  jests  ; 
For  the  fount  of  hope  was  gushing, 

Warm  and  joyous,  in  our  breasts. 
But  laughter  now  hath  fled  thy  lip, 

And  sullen  glooms  thy  brow  ; 
We  have  been  gay  together — 

Shall  a  light  word  part  us  now  ? 

We  have  been  sad  together — 

We  have  wept,  with  bitter  tears, 
O'er  the  grass-grown  graves,  where  slumber'd 

The  hopes  of  early  years. 
The  voices  which  are  silent  there 

Would  bid  thee  clear  thy  brow  ; 
We  have  been  sad  together — 

O  !  what  shall  part  us  now  ? 

Caroline  Elizabeth  Norton. 


SALLY  IN  OUR  ALLEY. 

F  all  the  girls  that  are  so  smart. 

There's  none  like  pretty  Sally  ; 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 
There  is  no  lady  in  the  land, 

Is  half  so  sweet  as  Sally  : 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

Her  father  he  makes  cabbage'nets. 

And  through  the  streets  does  cry  'em, 
Her  mother  she  sells  laces  long, 

To  such  as  please  to  buy  'em  : 
But  sure  such  folks  could  ne'er  beget 

So  sweet  a  girl  as  Sally  ! 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart. 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

Of  all  the  days  that's  in  the  week, 
I  dearly  love  but  one  day  ; 


LOVE  AND   FRIENDSHIP. 


79 


And  that's  the  day  that  comes  betwixt 

A  Saturday  and  Monday  ; 
For  then  I'm  dress'd  all  in  my  best, 
To  walk  abroad  with  Sally  ; 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 
And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

My  master  carries  me  to  church, 

And  ofter  am  I  blamed. 
Because  I  leave  him  in  the  lurch, 

As  soon  as  te.xt  is  named  : 
I  leave  the  church  in  sermon  time, 

And  slink  away  to  Sally  ; 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

Henry  Carey, 


m 


AMYNTA 

Y  sheep  I  neglected,  I  broke  my  sheep-hook, 

And  all  the  gay  haunts  of  my  youth  I  forsook; 

No  more  for  Amynta  fresh  garland  I  wove  ; 

For  ambition,  I  said,  would  soon  cure  me  of 
love. 
Oh,  what  had  my  youth  with  ambition  to  do  ? 
Why  left  I  Amynta  ?    Why  broke  I  my  vow  ? 
Oh,  give  me  my  sheep,  and  my  sheef)-hook  re 

store. 
And  I'll  wander  from  love  and  Amynta  no  more, 

Through  regions  remote  in  vain  do  I  rove. 
And  bid  the  \Vide  ocean  secure  me  from  love ! 
Oh,  fool !  to  imagine  that  aught  could  subdue 
A  love  so  well-founded,  a  passion  so  true  ! 

Alas  !  'tis  too  late  at  thy  feet  to  repme  ; 
Poor  shepherd,  Amynta  can  never  be  thine  : 
Thy  tears  are  all  fruitless,  thy  wishes  are  vain, 
The  moments  neglected  return  not  again. 

Sir  Gilbert  Elliot. 


© 


BEN   BOLT. 

^ON'T  you  remember  sweet  Alice,  Ben  Bolt? 
Sweet  Alice  whose  hair  was  so  brown. 
Who  wept  with  delight  when  you  gave  her  a 
smile, 
And  trembled  with  fear  at  your  frown  ? 
In  the  old  churchyard  in  the  valley,  Ben  Bolt, 

In  a  corner  obscure  and  alone. 
They  have  fitted  a  slab  of  the  granite  so  grey. 
And  Alice  lies  under  the  stone. 

Under  the  hickory  tree,  Ben  Bolt, 

Which  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  hill. 
Together  we've  lain  in  the  noonday  shade. 

And  listen'd  to  Appleton's  mill : 
The  mill-wheel  has  fallen  to  pieces,  Ben  Bolt, 

The  rafters  have  tumbled  in. 
And  a  quiet  which  crawls  round  the  walls  as  you  gaze, 

Has  foUow'd  the  olden  din. 


Do  you  mind  the  cabin  of  logs,  Ben  Bolt, 

At  the  edge  of  the  pathless  wood, 
And  the  button-ball  tree  with  its  motley  limbs, 

Wiiich  nigh  by  the  door-step  stood  ? 
The  cabin  to  ruin  has  gone,  Ben  Bolt, 

The  tree  you  would  seek  in  vain  ; 
And  where  once  the  lords  of  the  forest  waved, 

Grows  grass  and  the  golden  grain. 

And  don't  you  remember  the  school,  Ben  Bolt, 

With  the  master  so  cruel  and  grim. 
And  the  shaded  nook  in  the  running  brook. 

Where  the  children  went  to  swim  ? 
Grass  grows  on  the  master's  grave,  Ben  Bolt, 

The  spring  of  the  brook  is  dry. 
And  of  all  the  boys  who  were  schoolmates  then, 

There  are  only  you  and  I. 

There  is  change  in  the  things  I  loved,  Ben  Bolt, 

They  have  changed  from  the  old  to  the  new ; 
But  I  feel  in  the  deeps  of  my  spirit  the  truth. 

There  never  was  change  in  you. 
Twelvemonths  twenty  have  passed,  Ben  Bolt, 

Since  first  we  were  friends — yet  I  hail 
Thy  presence  a  blessing,  thy  friendship  a  truth, 

Ben  Bolt,  of  the  salt-sea  gale. 

Thomas  Dunn  English. 


LUCY. 


HE  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  way's. 
Beside  the  springs  of  Dove, 
A  maid  whom  there  were  none  to  pruise, 
And  very  few  to  love. 

A  violet  by  a  mossy  stone, 

Half  hidden  from  the  eye ; 
Fair  as  a  star  when  only  one 

Is  shining  in  the  sky. 

She  lived  unknown,  and  few  could  know 

When  Lucy  ceased  to  be  ; 
But  she  is  in  her  grave,  and  oh, 

The  difference  to  me  ! 

William  Wordsworth. 


n 


PEARLY  TEARS. 

OT  what  the  chemists  say  they  be. 
Are  pearls — they  never  grew  ; 
They  come  not  from  the  hollow  sea. 
They  come  from  heaven  in  dew. 

Down  in  the  Indian  Sea  it  slips. 
Through  green  and  briny  whirls, 

Where  great  shells  catch  it  in  their  lips, 
And  kiss  it  into  pearis. 

If  dew  can  be  so  beauteous  made, 

Oh,  why  not  tears,  my  girl  ? 
Why  not  your  tears  ?  Be  not  afraid — 

I  do  but  kiss  a  pearl. 

Richard  Henry  Stoddard 


80 


CROWN  je:wels. 


THE  TIME  OF  ROSES. 

'  T  was  not  in  the  winter 

Our  loving  lot  was  cast ; 
It  was  the  time  of  roses — 
We  plucked  them  as  we  passed ! 

That  churlish  season  never  frowned 

On  early  lovers  yet ; 
Oh  no ! — the  world  was  newly  crowned 

With  flowers  when  first  we  met. 

'Twas  twilight,  and  I  bade  you  go, 

But  still  you  held  me  fast ; 
It  was  the  time  of  roses — 

We  plucked  them  as  we  passed  \ 

What  else  could  peer  my  glowing  cheek, 
'   That  tears  began  to  stud  ? 
And  when  I  asked  the  like  of  love, 
You  snatched  a  damask  bud — 

And  oped  it  to  the  dainty  core. 

Still  blowing  to  the  last ; 
It  was  the  time  of  roses — 

We  plucked  them  as  we  passed  ! 

Thomas  Hood. 


LOVE'S  PHILOSOPHY. 

'HE  fountains  mingle  with  the  river, 
And  the  rivers  with  the  ocean, 
The  winds  of  heaven  mix  forever 
With  a  sweet  emotion ;     , , 
Nothing  in  the  world  is  single. 
All  things  by  a  law  divine 
In  one  another 's  being  mjngle — 
Why  not  I  with  thine  ? 

See  the  mountains  kiss  high  heaven, 
And  the  waves  clasp  one  another  ; 
No  sister-flower  would  be  forgiven 
If  it  disdained  its  brother : 
And  the  sunlight  clasps  the  earth, 
And  the  moonbeams  kiss  the  sea — 
What  are  all  these  kissings  worth, 
If  thou  kiss  not  me  ? 

Percy  Bvsshe  Shelley. 


NO  JEWELLED  BEAUTY  IS  MY  LOVE. 


n 


O  jewelled  beauty  is  my  love. 

Yet  in  her  earnest  face 
There's  such  a  world  of  tenderness, 

She  needs  no  other  grace. 
Her  smiles  and  voice  around  my  life 

In  light  and  music  twine. 
And  dear,  oh  !  very  dear  to  me 

Is  this  sweet  love  of  mine. 

Oh  joy  !  to  know  there's  one  fond  heart 
Beats  ever  true  to  me ; 


It  sets  mine  leaping  like  a  lyre, 

In  sweetest  melody ; 
My  soul  up-springs,  a  deity  ! 

To  hear  Iier  voice  divine ; 
And  dear,  oh !  very  dear  to  me 

Is  this  sweet  love  of  mine. 

If  ever  I  have  sighed  for  wealth, 

'Twas  all  for  her,  I  trow  ; 
And  if  I  win  fame's  victor-wreath, 

I'll  twine  it  on  her  brow. 
There  may  be  forms  more  beautiful, 

And  souls  of  sunnier  shine. 
But  none,  oh  !  none  so  dear  to  me 

As  this  sweet  love  of  mine. 

Gerald  Masse y. 


llJ 


THE  LOW-BACKED  CAR. 

HEN  first  I  saw  sweet  Peggy, 
'Twas  on  a  market  day : 
A  low-backed  car  she  drove,  and  sat 

Upon  a  truss  of  hay ; 
But  when  that  hay  was  blooming  grass, 

And  decked  with  flowers  of  spring, 
No  flower  was  there  that  could  compare 

With  the  blooming  girl  I  sing. 
As  she  sat  in  the  low-backed  car, 
The  man  at  the  turnpike  bar 
Never  asked  for  the  toll. 
But  just  rubbed  his  owldpoll, 
And  looked  after  the  low-backed  car. 

In  battle's  wild  commotion. 

The  proud  and  mighty  Mars 
With  hostile  scythes  demands  his  tithes 

Of  death  in  warlike  cars  ; 
While  Peggy,  peaceful  goddess, 

Has  darts  in  her  bright  eye, 
That  knock  men  down  in  the  market  town 

As  right  and  left  they  fly  ; 
While  she  sits  in  her  low-backed  car, 
Than  battle  more  dangerous  far — 
For  the  doctor's  art 
Cannot  cure  the  heart 
That  is  hit  from  that  low-backed  car. 

Sweet  Peggry  round  her  car,  sir, 

Has  strings  of  ducks  and  geese, 
But  the  scores  of  hearts  she  slaughters 

By  far  outnumber  these ; 
While  she  among  her  poultry  sits. 

Just  like  a  turtle-dove. 
Well  worth  the  cage,  I  do  engage, 

Of  the  blooming  god  of  love  ! 
While  she  sits  in  her  low-backed  car, 
The  lovers  come  near  and  far. 
And  envy  the  chicken 
That  Peggy  is  pickin'. 
As  she  sits  in  her  low-backed  car. 


LOVE  AND   FRIENDSHIP. 


81 


O,  I'd  rather  own  that  car,  sir, 

With  Peggy  by  my  side, 
Than  a  coach  and  four,  and  gold  galore, 

And  a  lady  for  my  bride ; 
For  the  lady  would  sit  forninst  me, 
On  a  cushion  made  with  taste — 
While  Peggy  would  sit  beside  me, 
With  my  arm  around  her  waist, 
While  we  drove  in  the  low-backed  car. 
To  be  married  by  Father  Mahar  ; 
O,  my  heart  would  beat  high 
At  her  glance  and  her  sigh — 
Though  it  beat  in  a  low-backed  car ! 

Samuel  Lover. 

IF  I  HAD  KNOWN. 

'  F  I  had  known,  oh,  loyal  heart. 

When,  hand  to  hand,  we  said  farewell. 
How  for  all  time  our  paths  would  part. 
What  shadow  o'er  our  friendship  fell, 
I  should  have  clasped  your  hands  so  close 

In  the  warm  pressure  of  my  own, 
That  memory  still  would  keep  its  grasp — 
If  I  had  known. 

If  I  had  known,  when  far  and  wide 
We  loitered  through  the  summer  land, 

What  Presence  wandered  by  our  side. 
And  o'er  you  stretched  its  awful  hand, 

I  should  have  hushed  my  careless  speech. 
To  listen,  dear,  to  every  tone 

That  from  your  lips  fell  low  and  sweet — 
If  I  had  known. 

If  I  had  known,  when  your  kind  eyes 
Met  mine  in  parting,  true  and  sad — 

Eyes  gravely  tender,  gently  wise. 
And  earnest,  rather,  more  than  glad — 

How  soon  the  lids  would  lie  above, 
As  cold  and  white  as  sculptured  stone, 

I  should  have  treasured  every  glance — 
If  I  had  known. 

If  I  had  known  how,  from  the  strife  , 

Of  fears,  hopes,  j)assions,  here  below. 

Unto  a  purer,  higher  life 
That  you  were  called,  oh  !  friend,  to  go, 

I  should  have  stayed  my  foolish  tears. 
And  hushed  each  idle  sigh  and  moan. 

To  bid  you  last  a  long  godspeed — 
If  I  had  known. 

If  I  had  known  to  what  strange  place. 
What  mystic,  distant,  silent  shore, 

You  calmly  turned  your  steadfast  face, 
What  time  your  footsteps  left  my  door, 

I  should  have  forged  a  golden  link 
To  bind  the  hearts  so  constant  grown, 

And  kept  it  constant  ever  there — 
If  I  had  known. 

(6) 


If  I  had  known  that  until  Death 

Shall  with  his  finger  touch  my  brow, 

And  still  the  quickening  of  the  breath 
That  stirs  with  life's  full  meaning  now, 

So  long  my  feet  must  tread  the  way 
Of  our  accustomed  paths  alone, 

I  should  have  prized  your  presence  more — 
If  I  had  known. 

If  I  had  known  how  soon  for  you 
Drew  near  the  ending  of  the  fight. 

And  on  your  vision,  fair  and  new. 
Eternal  peace  dawned  into  sight, 

I  should  have  begged,  as  love's  last  gift, 
That  you,  before  God's  great  white  throne, 

Would  pray  for  your  poor  friend  on  earth — 
If  I  had  known. 


IIJ' 


WHEN  SPARROWS  BUILD. 

'HEN  sparrows  build  and  the  leaves  break 
forth. 
My  old  sorrow  wakes  and  cries. 
For  I  know  there  is  dawn  in  the  far,  far 
north, 
And  a  scarlet  sun  doth  rise  ; 
Like  a  scarlet  fleece  the  snow-field  spreads. 

And  the  icy  fount  runs  free  ; 
And  the  bergs  begin  to  bow  their  heads. 
And  plunge  and  sail  in  the  sea. 

Oh,  my  lost  love,  and  my  own,  own  love, 

And  my  love  that  loved  me  so  ! 
Is  there  never  a  chink  in  the  world  above 

Where  they  listen  for  words  from  below  ? 
Nay,  I  spoke  once,  and  I  grieved  thee  sore  ; 

I  remembered  all  that  1  said  ; 
And  thou  wilt  hear  me  no  more — no  more 

Till  the  sea  gives  up  her  dead. 

Thou  didst  set  thy  foot  on  the  ship,  and  sail 

To  the  ice-fields  and  tlie  snow  ; 
Thou  wert  sad,  for  thy  love  did  not  avail. 

And  the  end  I  could  not  know. 
How  could  I  tell  I  should  love  thee  to-day. 

Whom  that  day  I  held  not  dear  ? 
How  could  I  tell  I  should  love  thee  away 

When  I  did  not  love  thee  a-near? 

We  shall  walk  no  more  through  the  sodden  plain, 

With  the  faded  bents  o'erspread ; 
We  shall  stand  no  more  by  the  seething  main 

While  the  dark  wrack  drives  o'erhead ; 
We  shall  part  no  more  in  the  wind  and  rain 

Where  thy  last  farewell  was  said  ; 
But  perhaps  I  shall  meet  thee  and  know  thee  again 

When  the  sea  gives  up  her  dead. 

J;ean  Ingklow. 


82 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


(3 


SEVERED  FRIENDSHIP. 

LAS  !  they  had  been  friends  in  youth ; 
But  whispering  tongues  can  poison  truth  ; 
And  constancy  lives  in  realms  above  ; 
And  life  is  thorny  ;  and  youth  is  vain , 
And  to  be  wroth  with  one  we  love, 
Doth  work  like  madness  in  the  brain. 
And  thus  it  chanced,  as  I  divine, 
With  Roland  and  Sir  Leoline. 
Each  spake  words  of  high  disdain 
And  insult  to  his  heart's  best  brother : 
They  parted— ne'er  to  meet  again  ! 
But  never  either  found  another 
To  free  the  hollow  heart  from  paining — 
They  stood  aloof,  the  scars  remaining. 
Like  cliffs  which  had  been  rent  asunder  ; 
A  dreary  sea  now  flows  between  ; 
But  neither  heat,  nor  frost,  nor  thunder, 
Shall  wholly  do  away,  I  ween. 
The  marks  of  that  which  once  hath  been. 
Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge. 

RORY  O'MORE; 

OR,  ALL  FOR   GOOD  LUCK. 

OUNG  Rory  O'More  courted  Kathleen  bawn — 
He  was  bold  as  a  hawk,  she  as  soft  as  the 

dawn ; 

He  wished  in   his  heart  pretty  Ka:thleen  to 
please, 
And  he  thought  the  best  way  to  do  that  was  to  tease. 
"  Now,  Rory,  be  aisy !  "  sweet  Kathleen  would  cry. 
Reproof  on  her  lips,  but  a  smile  in  her  eye — 
"  With  your  tricks,  I  don't  know,  in  troth,  what  I'm 

about ; 
Faith !  you've  tazed  me  till  I've  put  on  my  cloak  inside 

out." 
"Och !  jewel,"  says  Rory,  "That  same  is  the  way 
Ye've  thrated  my  heart  for  this  many  a  day ; 
And  'tis  plazed  that  I  am,  and  why  not,  to  be  sure? 
For  'tis  all  for  good  luck,"  says  bold  Rory  O'More. 

"  Indeed,  then,"  says  Kathleen,  "don't  think  of  the  like. 
For  I  half  gave  a  promise  to  soothering  Mike  : 
The  ground  that  I  walk  on  he  loves,  I'll  be  bound — " 
"Faith!"  says  Rory,   "I'd  rather  love  you  than  the 

ground." 
"  Now,  Rory,  I'll  cry  if  you  don't  let  me  go  ; 
Sure  I  dream  every  night  that  I'm  hating  you  so!  " 
"Och ! "  says  Rory,  "that  same  I'm  delighted  to  hear, 
For  dhrames  always  go  by  conthraries,  my  dear. 
So,  jewel,  keep  dhraming  that  same  till  ye  die. 
And  bright  morning  will  give  dirty  night  the  black  lie ! 
And  'tis  plazed  that  I  am,  and  why  not,  to  be  sure  ! 
Since  'tis  all  for  good  luck,"  says  bold  Rory  O'More. 

"  Arrah,  Kathleen,  my  darlint,  you've  tazed  me  enough  ; 
Sure  I've  thrashed,  for  your  sake,  Dinny  Grimes  and 
Jim  Duff; 


And  I've  made  myself,  drinking  your  health,  quite  a 
baste — 

So  I  think,  after  that,  I  may  talk  to  the  praste." 

Then  Rory,  the  rogue,  stole  his  arm  round  her  neck, 

So  soft  and  so  white,  without  freckle  or  speck ; 

And  he  looked  in  her  eyes,  that  were  beaming  with 
light, 

And  he  kissed  her  sweet  lips — don't  you  think  he  was 
right  ? 

"Now,  Rory,  leave  off,  sir  —  you'll  hug  me  no 
more — 

That's  eight  times  to  day  that  you've  kissed  me  be- 
fore." 

"Then  here  goes  another,"  says  he,  "  to  make  sure  ! 

For  there's  luck  in  odd  numbers,"  says  Rory  O  More. 

Samuel  Lover. 


THE  PLEDGE  OF  LOVE. 

ROMEO — If  I  profane  with  my  unworthy  hand 
[To  Juliet. 
This  holy  shrine,  the  gentle  fine  is  this — 
My  lips,  two  blushing  pilgrims,  ready  stand, 
To  smooth  that  rough  touch  with  a  tender  kiss. 
Juliet — Good  pilgrim,  you  do  wrong  your  hand  too 
much. 
Which  mannerly  devotion  shows  in  this ; 
For  saints  have  hands  that  pilgrims'  hands  do  touch, 

And  palm  to  palm  is  holy  palmers'  kiss. 
Romeo — Have  not  saints  lips,  and  holy  palmers  too  ? 
Juliet — Ay,  pilgrim,  lips  that  they  must  use  in  prayer. 
Romeo — O  then,  dear  saint,  let  lips  do  what  hands  do  ; 

They  pray,  grant  thou,  lest  faith  turn  to  despair, 
Juliet — Saints  do  not  move,  though  grant  for  prayers' 

sake. 
Romeo — Then  move  not,  while  my  prayer's  effect  I 
take. 
Thus  from  my  lips,  by  yours,  myosin  is  purg'd. 

{^Kissing  her. 
Juliet — Then  have  my  lips  the  sin  that  they  have  took. 
Romeo — Sin  from  my  lips  ?  O  trespass  sweetly  urged  1 

Give  me  my  sin  again. 
Juliet —  You  kiss  by  the  book. 

Now  old  desire  doth  in  his  death-bed  lie, 

And  young  affection  gapes  to  be  his  heir  ; 
That  fair,  which  love  groan'd  for,  and  would  die, 

With  tender  Juliet  match'd,  is  now  not  fair. 
Now  Romeo  is  belov'd,  and  loves  again, 

Alike  bewitched  by  the  charm  of  looks  ; 
But  to  his  foe  suppos'd  he  must  complain. 

And  she  steal  love's  sweet  bait  from  fearful  hooks  : 
Being  held  a  foe,  he  may  not  have  access 

To  breathe  such  vows  as  lovers  used  to  swear ; 
And  she  as  much  in  love,  her  means  much  less 

To  meet  her  new-beloved  any  where  : 
But  passion  lends  them  pow'r,  time  means  to  meet, 
Temp'ring  extremities  with  extreme  sweet. 


LOVE   AND   FRIENDSHIP. 


83 


A  MILKMAID'S  SONG. 

PULL,  pull !  and  the  pail  is  full, 
And  milking's  done  and  over. 
Who  would  not  sit  here  under  the  tree  ? 
What  a  fair,  fair  thing's  a  green  field  to  see ! 
Brim,  brim,  to  the  rim,  ah  me  ! 
I  have  set  my  pail  on  the  daisies  1 
It  seems  so  light — can  the  sun  be  set? 
The  dews  must  be  heavy,  my  cheeks  are  wet, 
I  could  cry  to  have  hurt  the  daisies  ! 
Harry  is  near,  Harry  is  near, 
My  heart's  as  sick  as  if  he  were  here. 
My  lips  are  burning,  my  cheeks  are  wet, 
He  hasn't  uttered  a  word  as  yet, 
But  the  air's  astir  with  his  praises. 
My  Harry  ! 
The  air's  astir  with  your  praises. 

He  has  scaled  the  rock  by  the  pixy's  stone, 

He's  among  the  kingcups — he  picks  me  one, 

I  love  the  grass  that  I  tread  upon 

When  I  go  to  my  Harry ! 

He  has  jumped  the  brook,  he  has  climbed  the  knoll, 

There's  never  a  faster  foot  I  know. 

But  still  he  seems  to  tarry. 

0  Harry  !  O  Harry  1  my  love,  my  pride. 
My  heart  is  leaping,  my  arms  are  wide  ! 
Roll  up,  roll  up,  you  dull  hillside, 

Roll  up,  and  bring  my  Harry  ! 

They  may  talk  of  glory  over  the  sea, 

But  Harry's  alive,  and  Harry  s  for  me. 

My  love,  my  lad,  my  Harry  ! 

Come  spring,  come  winter,  come  sun,  come  snow. 

What  cares  Dolly,  whether  or  no, 

While  I  can  milk  and  marry  ? 

Right  or  wrong,  and  wrong  or  right, 

Quarrel  who  quarrel,  and  fight  who  fight, 

But  I'll  bring  my  pail  home  every  night 

To  love,  and  home,  and  Harry  ! 

We'll  drink  our  can,  we'll  eat  our  cake. 

There's  beer  in  the  barrel,  there's  bread  in  the  bake. 

The  world  may  sleep,  the  world  may  wake, 

But  I  shall  milk  and  marry. 

And  marry, 

1  shall  milk  and  marry. 

Sydney  Dobell. 


FETCHING  WATER  FROM  THE  WELL 

ARLY  on  a  sunny  morning,  while  the  lark  was 
singing  sweet, 
Came,  beyond  the  ancient  farm-house,  sounds 
of  lightly  tripping  feet. 
'Twas  a  lowly  cottage  maiden  going — why,  let  young 

hearts  tell— 
With  her  homely  pitcher  laden,  fetcliing  water  from  the 

well. 
Shadows  lay  athwart  the  pathway,  all  along  the  quiet 
lane. 


And  the  breezes  of  the  morning  moved  them  to  and  fro 
again. 

O'er  the  sunshine,  o'er  the  shadow,  passed  maiden  of 
the  farm. 

With  a  charmed  heart  within  her,  thinking  of  no  ill 
nor  harm. 

Pleasant,  surely,  were  her  musings,  for  the  noddir.g 
leaves  in  vain 

Sought  to  press  their  brightening  image  on  her  ever- 
busy  brain. 

Leaves  and  joyous  birds  went  by  her,  like  a  dim,  half- 
waking  dream  ; 

And  her  soul  was  only  conscious  of  life's  gladdest  sum- 
mer gleam. 

At  the  old  lane's  shady  turning  lay  a  well  of  water 
bright, 

Singing,  soft,  its  hallelujah  to  the  gracious  moniing 
light. 

Fern-leaves,  broad  and  green,  bent  o'er  it  where  its 
silvery  droplets  fell. 

And  the  fairies  dwelt  beside  it,  in  the  spotted  foxglove 
bell. 

Back  she  bent  the  shading  fern-leaves,  dipt  the  pitcher 
in  the  tide — 

Drew  it,  with  the  dripping  waters  flowing  o'er  its  glazed 
side. 

But  before  her  arm  could  place  it  on  her  shiny,  wavy 
hair. 

By  her  side  a  youth  was  standing  ! — Love  rejoiced  to 
see  the  pair ! 

Tones  of  tremulous  emotion  trailed  upon  the  morning 
breeze, 

Gentle  words  of  heart-devotion  whispered  "neath  the 
ancient  trees. 

But  the  holy,  blessed  secrets  it  becomes  me  not  to  tell : 

Life  had  met  another  meaning,  fetching  water  from  the 
well! 

Down  the  rural  lane  they  sauntered.  He  the  burden- 
pitcher  bore ; 

She,  with  dewy  eyes  down-looking,  grew  more  beau- 
teous than  before  I 

When  they  neared  the  silent  homestead,  up  he  raised 
the  pitcher  light ; 

Like  a  fitting  crown  he  placed  it  on  her  hair  of  wave- 
lets bright : 

Emblems  of  the  coming  burdens  that  for  love  of  liiin 
she'd  bear. 

Calling  every  burden  blessed,  if  his  Move  but  lighted 
there.     * 

Then,  still  waving  benedictions,  further,  further  off  he 
drew. 

While  his  shadow  seemed  a  glory  that  across  the  path- 
way grew. 

Now  about  her  household  duties  silently  the  maiden 
went. 

And  an  ever-radiant  halo  o'er  her  daily  life  was  blent. 

Little  knew  the  aged  matron  as  her  feet  like  music  fell. 

What  abundant  treasure  found  she  fetching  water  from 
the  well ! 


84 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


KITTY  OF  COLERAINE. 

'S  beautiful  Kitty  one  morning  was  tripping 

With  a  pitcher  of  milk,   from  the  fair  of 
Coleraine, 

When  she  saw  me  she  stumbled,  the  pitcher 
it  tumbled, 
And  all  the  sweet  buttemiilk  watered  the  plain. 

"  O,  what  shall  I  do  now — 't  was  looking  at  you  now  ! 

Sure,  sure,  such  a  pitcher  I'll  ne'er  meet  again! 
'Twas  the  pride  of  my  dairy  :  O  Barney  M'Cleary  ! 

You're  sent  as  a  plague  to  the  girls  of  Coleraine." 

I  sat  down  beside  her,  and  gently  did  chide  her, 
That  such  a  misfortune  should  give  her  such  pain. 

A  kiss  then  I  gave  her  ;  and  ere  I  did  leave  her, 
She  vowed  for  such  pleasure  she'd  break  it  again. 

'Twas  hay-making  season — I  can't  tell  the  reason— 
Misfortunes  will  never  come  single,  't  is  plain  ; 

For  very  soon  after  poor  Kitty's  disaster 
Not  a  buttermilk  pitcher  was  whole  in  Coleraine. 

SWEET  MEETING  OF  DESIRES. 

GREW  assured,  before  I  asked, 

That  she'd  be  mine  without  reserve, 
And  in  her  unclaimed  graces  basked 

At  leisure,  till  the  time  should  serve — 
With  just  enough  of  dread  to  thrill 

The  hope,  and  make  it  trebly  dear : 
Thus  loath  to  speak  the  word,  to  kill 
Either  the  hope  or  happy  fear. 

Till  once,  through  lanes  returning  late. 

Her  laughing  sisters  lagged  behind  ; 
And  ere  we  reached  her  fathers  gate. 

We  paused  virith  one  presentient  mind  ; 
And  in  the  dim  and  perfumed  mist 

Their  coming  stayed,  who,  blithe  and  free, 
And  very  women,  loved  to  assist 

A  lover's  opportunity. 

Twice  rose,  twice  died,  my  trembling  word  ; 

To  faint  and  frail  cathedral  chimes 
Spake  time  in  music,  and  we  heard 

The  chafers  rustling  in  the  limes. 
Her  dress,  that  touched  me  where  I  stood  ; 

The  warmth  of  her  confided  arm  ; 
Her  bosom's  gentle  neighborhood  ; 

Her  pleasure  in  her  power  to  charm  ; 

Her  look,  her  love,  her  form,  her  touch  ! 

The  last  seemed  most  by  blissful  turn — 
Blissful  but  that  it  pleased  too  much. 

And  taught  the  wayward  soul  to  yearn. 
It  was  as  if  a  harp  with  wires 

Was  traversed  by  the  breath  I  drew ; 
And  O,  sweet  meeting  of  desires ! 

She,  answering,  owned  that  she  loved  too. 

Coventry  Patmore. 


THE  LOVER'S  COMING. 

LEANED  out  of  window,  I  smelt  the  white  clover. 
Dark,  dark  was  the  burden,  I  saw  not  the  gate  ; 
"Now,  if  there  be  footsteps,  he  comes,  my  one 
lover — 

Hush,  nightingale,  hush  !  O  sweet  nightingale,  wait 
Till  I  listen  and  hear 
If  a  step  draweth  near, 
For  my  love  he  is  late  ! 

"  The  skies  in  the  darkness  stoop  nearer  and  nearer, 

A  cluster  of  stars  hangs  like  fruit  in  the  tree. 
The  fall  of  the  water  comes  sweeter,  comes  clearer  : 
To  what  art  thou  listening,  and  what  dost  thou  see  ? 
Let  the  star-clusters  glow, 
Let  the  sweet  waters  flow, 
And  cross  quickly  to  me. 

"Your  night-moths  that  hover  where  honey  brims  over 

From  sycamore  blossoms,  or  settle  or  sleep  ; 
You  glow-worms,  shine  out,  and  the  pathway  discover 
To  him  that  comes  darkling  along  the  rough  steep. 
Ah,  my  sailor,  make  haste, 
For  the  time  runs  to  waste, 
And  my  love  lieth  deep — • 

"  Too  deep  for  swift  telling ;  and  yet,  my  one  lover, 

I've  conned  thee  an  answer,  it  waits  thee  to-night." 
By  the  sycamore  passed  he,  and  through  the  white 
clover  ; 
Then  all  the  sweet  speech  I  had  fashioned  took  flight ; 
But  I'll  love  him  more,  more 
Than  e'er  wife  loved  before, 
Be  the  days  dark  or  bright. 

Jean  Ingelow. 

SUMMER  DAYS. 

*JP  N  summer,  when  the  days  were  long, 
•^*    We  walked  together  in  the  wood  : 
•*»        Our  heart  was  light,  our  step  was  strong ; 
'       Sweet  flutterings  were  there  in  our  blood. 
In  summer,  when  the  days  were  long. 

We  strayed  from  morn  till  evening  came  ; 
We  gathered  flowers,  and  wove  us  crowns  ; 

We  walked  mid  poppies  red  as  flame, 
Or  sat  upon  the  yellow  downs ; 

And  always  wished  our  life  the  same. 

In  summer,  when  the  days  were  long, 
We  leaped  the  hedge-row,  crossed  the  brook  ; 

And  still  her  voice  flowed  forth  in  song, 
Or  else  she  read  some  graceful  book, 

In  summer,  when  the  days  were  long. 

And  then  we  sat  beneath  the  trees. 
With  shadows  lessening  in  the  noon  ; 

And  in  the  sunlight  and  the  breeze. 
We  feasted,  many  a  gorgeous  June, 

While  larks  were  singing  o'er  the  leas. 


LOVE   AND    FRIENDSHIP. 


85 


In  summer,  when  the  days  were  long, 
On  dainty  chicken,  snow-white  bread, 

We  feasted,  with  no  grace  but  song  ; 
VV^e  plucked  wild  strawberries,  ripe  and  red, 

In  summer,  when  the  days  were  long. 

We  loved,  and  yet  we  knew  it  not — 
For  loving  seemed  like  breathing  then  ; 

We  found  a  heaven  in  every  spot ; 
Saw  angels,  too,  in  all  good  men  ; 

And  dreamed  of  God  in  grove  and  grot. 

In  summer,  when  the  days  are  long, 
Alone  I  wander,  muse  alone. 

I  see  her  not ;  but  that  old  song 
Under  the  fragrant  wind  is  blown, 

In  summer,  when  the  days  are  long. 

Alone  I  wander  in  the  wood : 
But  one  fair  spirit  hears  my  sighs  ; 

And  half  I  see,  so  glad  and  good, 
The  honest  daylight  of  her  eyes, 

That  charmed  me  under  earlier  skies. 

In  summer,  when  the  days  are  long, 
I  love  her  as  we  loved  of  old. 

My  heart  is  light,  my  step  is  strong  ; 
For  love  brings  back  those  hours  of  gold, 

In  summer,  when  the  days  are  long. 


MEETING. 

'HE  gray  sea,  and  the  long  black  land  ; 

And  the  yellow  half-moon  large  and  low  ; 

And  the  startled  little  waves,  that  leap 
'^        In  fiery  ringlets  from  their  sleep. 
As  I  gain  the  cove  with  pushing  prow, 
And  quench  its  speed  in  the  slushy  sand. 

Then  a  mile  of  warm,  sea-scented  beach ; 

Three  fields  to  cross,  till  a  farm  appears  ; 

A  tap  at  the  pane,  the  quick  sharp  scratch 

And  blue  spurt  of  a  lighted  match. 

And  a  voice  less  loud,  through  its  joys  and  fears, 

Than  the  two  hearts,  beating  each  to  each. 

Robert  Browning. 


WHEN  WE  TWO  PARTED. 

HEN  we  two  parted 

In  silence  and  tears. 
Half  broken-hearted, 

To  sever  for  years, 
Pale  grew  thy  cheek  and  cold, 

Colder  thy  kiss ; 
Truly  that  hour  foretold 

Sorrow  to  this. 

The  dew  of  the  morning 
Sunk  chill  on  my  brow — 

It  felt  like  the  warning 
Of  what  I  feel  now. 


Thy  vows  are  all  broken, 

And  light  is  thy  fame  ; 
I  hear  thy  name  spoken, 

And  share  in  its  shame. 

They  name  thee  before  me, 

A  knell  to  mine  ear ; 
A  shudder  comes  o'er  me — 

Why  wert  thou  so  dear  ? 
They  know  not  I  knew  thee, 

Who  knew  thee  too  well. 
Long,  long,  shall  I  rue  thee 

Too  deeply  to  tell. 

In  secret  we  met — 

In  silence  I  grieve, 
That  thy  heart  could  forget. 

Thy  spirit  deceive. 
If  I  should  meet  thee 

After  long  years. 
How  should  I  greet  thee  ? — 

In  silence  and  tears. 

Lord  Bvron. 

FORGET  THEE? 

(T^  ORGET  thee  ?"— If  to  dream  by  night,  and 

"it  muse  on  thee  by  day, 

M.  If  all  the  worship,  deep  and  wild,  a  poet's 

heart  can  pay. 
If  prajers  in  absence  breathed  for  thee  to  Heaven's 

protecting  power, 
If  winged  thoughts  that  flit  to  thee — a  thousand  in  an 

hour, 
If  busy  fancy  blending  thee  with  all  my  future  lot — 
If  this  thou  call'st  "  forgetting,"  thou  indeed  shall  be 

forgot  1 

♦'Forget  thee?" — Bid  the  forest-birds  forget  their 
sweetest  tune  ; 

''  Forget  thee  ?  " — Bid  the  sea  forget  to  swell  beneath 
the  moon  ; 

Bid  the  thirsty  flowers  forget  to  drink  the  eve's  re- 
freshing dew ; 

Thyself  forget  thine  "own  dear  land,"  and  its 
"  mountains  wild  and  blue  ;  ' 

Forget  each  old  familiar  face,  each  long-remembered 
spot; — 

When  these  things  are  forgot  by  thee,  then  thou  shalt 
be  forgot ! 

Keep,  if  thou  wilt,  thy  maiden  peace,  still  calm  and 

fancy-free. 
For  God  forbid  thy  gladsome  heart  should  grow  less 

glad  for  me ; 
Yet,  while  that  heart  is  still  unwon,  O,  bid  not  mine  to 

rove, 
But  let  it  nurse  its  humble  faith  and  uncomplaining  love ; 
If  these,  preserved  forpatient  years,  at  last  avail  me  not, 
Forget  me  then  ; — but  ne'er  believe  that  thou  canst  be 

forgot ! 

John  Moultrie. 


86 


CROWN  JEWELS 


(3 


GENEVIEVE. 

LL  thoughts,  all  passions,  all  delights, 
Whatever  stirs  this  mortal  frame, 
All  are  but  ministers  of  Love, 
And  feed  his  sacred  flame. 


Oft  in  my  waking  dreams  do  I 
Live  o'er  again  that  happy  hour, 
When  midway  on  the  mount  I  lay 
Beside  the  ruined  tower. 

The  moonshine  stealing  o'er  the  scene 
Had  blended  with  the  lights  of  eve  ; 
And  she  was  there,  my  hope,  my  joy, 
My  own  dear  Genevieve  ! 

She  leaned  against  the  armed  man, 
The  statue  of  the  armtld  knight; 
She  stood  and  listened  to  my  lay, 
Amid  the  lingering  light. 

Few  sorrows  hath  she  of  her  own, 
My  hope  !  my  joy  !  my  Genevieve  ! 
She  loves  me  best  whene'er  I  sing 
The  songs  that  make  her  grieve. 

I  played  a  soft  and  doleful  air, 
I  sang  an  old  and  moving  story — 
An  old  rude  song,  that  suited  well 
That  ruin  wild  and  hoary. 

She  listened  with  a  flitting  blush, 
With  downcast  eyes  and  modest  grace  ; 
For  well  she  knew,  I  could  not  choose 
But  gaze  upon  her  face. 

I  told  her  of  the  knight  that  wore 
Upon  his  shield  a  burning  brand  ; 
And  that  for  ten  long  years  he  wooed 
The  lady  of  the  land. 

I  told  her  how  he  pined  :  and  ah  ! 
The  deep,  the  low,  the  pleading  tone 
With  v/hich  I  sang  another's  love 
Interpreted  my  own. 

She  listened  with  a  flitting  blush, 
With  downcast  eyes  and  modest  grace  ; 
And  she  forgave  me  that  I  gazed 
Too  fondly  on  her  face. 

But  when  I  told  the  cruel  scorn 
That  crazed  that  bold  and  lovely  knight. 
And  that  he  crossed  the  mountain-woods, 
Nor  rested  day  nor  night ; 

That  sometimes  from  the  savage  den. 
And  sometimes  from  tlie  darksome  shade, 
And  sometimes  starting  up  at  once 
In  green  and  sunny  glade. 

There  came  and  looked  him  in  the  face 
An  angel  beautiful  and  bright ; 
And  that  he  knew  it  was  a  fiend. 
This  miserable  knight ! 


And  that  unknowing  what  he  did, 
He  leaped  amid  a  murderous  band, 
And  saved  from  outrage  worse  than  death 
The  lady  of  the  land; 

And  how  she  wept,  and  clasped  his  knees ; 
And  how  she  tended  him  in  vain ; 
And  ever  strove  to  expiate 

The  scorn  that  crazed  his  brain ; 

And  that  she  nursed  him  in  a  cave, 
And  how  his  madness  went  away, 
When  on  the  yellow  forest-leaves 
A  dying  man  he  lay  ; 

— His  dying  words— but  when  I  reached 
That  tenderest  strain  of  all  the  ditty. 
My  faltering  voice  and  pausing  harp 
Disturbed  her  soul  with  pity  ! 

All  impulses  of  soul  and  sense 
Had  thrilled  my  guileless  Genevieve } 
The  music  and  the  doleful  tale, 
The  rich  and  balmy  eve  ; 

And  hopes,  and  fears  that  kindle  hope, 
An  undistinguishable  throng, 
And  gentle  wishes  long  subdued. 
Subdued  and  cherished  long. 

She  wept  with  pity  and  delight, 
She  blushed  with  love,  and  virgin  shame ; 
And  like  a  murmur  of  a  dream, 
I  heard  her  breathe  my  name. 

Her  bosom  heaved, — she  stepped  aside, 
As  conscious  of  my  look  she  stept — 
Then  suddenly,  with  timorous  eye 
She  fled  to  me  and  wept. 

She  half  enclosed  me  with  her  arms. 
She  pressed  me  with  a  meek  embrace  ; 
And  bending  back  her  head,  looked  up. 
And  gazed  upon  my  face. 

'T  was  partly  love,  and  partly  fear. 
And  partly  't  was  a  bashful  art 
That  I  might  rather  feel  than  see 
The  swelling  of  her  heart. 

I  calmed  her  fears,  and  she  was  calm. 
And  told  her  love  with  virgin  pride ; 
And  so  I  won  my  Genevieve, 

My  bright  and  beauteous  bride. 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge. 


THECOURTIN'. 

,  OD  makes  sech  nights,  all  white  an'  still 
Fur  'z  you  can  look  or  listen, 
Moonshine  an'  snow  on  field  an'  hill, 
All  silence  an'  all  gliste 

Zekel  crep'  quite  unbeknown 
An'  peeked  in  thru'  the  winder, 


LOVE   AND   FRIENDSHIP. 


87 


An'  there  sot  Huldy  all  alone, 
'Ith  no  one  nigh  to  hender. 

A  fireplace  filled  the  room's  one  side 
With  half  a  cord  o'  wood  in — 

There  warn't  no  stoves  (tell  comfort  died) 
To  bake  ye  to  a  puddin'. 

Tlie  wa'nut  logs  shot  sparkles  out 
Towards  the  pootiest,  bless  her! 

An'  leetle  flames  danced  all  about 
The  chiny  on  the  dresser. 

Agin  the  chimbley  crook-necks  hung, 

An'  in  among  'em  rusted 
The  old  queen's-arm  thet  gran'ther  Young 

Fetched  back  from  Concord  biusted. 

The  very  room,  coz  she  was  in, 

Seemea  warm  from  floor  to  ceilin' ; 

An'  she  looked  full  ez  rosy  agin, 
Ez  the  apples  she  was  peelin'. 

'Twas  kin'  o'  kingdom-come  to  look 

On  such  a  blessed  creetur, 
A  dogrose  blushin'  to  a  brook 

Ain't  modester  nor  sweeter.  , 

He  was  six  foot  o'  man,  A  i. 

Clean  grit  an'  human  natur' ; 
None  couldnt  quicker  pitch  a  ton 

Nor  dror  a  furrer  straighter. 

He'd  sparked  it  with  full  twenty  gals, 

He'd  squired  'em,  danced  'em,  druv  'em, 

Fust  this  one,  an'  then  thet,  by  spells — 
All  is,  he  couldn't  love  'em. 

But  long  o'  her  his  veins  'ould  run 

All  crinkly  like  curled  maple, 
The  side  she  breshed  felt  full  o'sun 

Ez  a  south  slope  in  Ap'il. 

She  thought  no  v'ice  hed  sech  a  swing 

Ez  hisn  in  the  choir; 
My !  when  he  made  "  Ole  Hundred  "  ring. 

She  knowed  the  Lord  was  nigher. 

An'  she'd  blush  scarlet,  right  in  prayer, 

When  her  new  meetin'  bunnet 
Felt  somehow  thru'  its  crown  a  pair 

O'  blue  eyes  sot  upon  it. 

She  heered  a  foot,  an'  knowed  it  tu, 

A  raspin'  on  the  scraper — 
All-ways  to  once  her  feelin's  flew 

Like  sparks  in  burnt-up  paper. 

He  kin'  o'  I'itered  on  the  mat, 

Some  doubtfle  o'  the  sekle. 
His  heart  kep'  goin'  pity-pat, 

But  hem  went  pity  Zekle. 

An'  yit  she  gin  her  cheer  a  jerk 
Ez  though  she  wished  him  furder, 


An'  on  her  apples  kep'  to  work, 
Parin'  away  like  murder. 

"You  want  to  see  my  Pa^ I  s'pose ? ' 

"Wall  ....  no  ...  .  I  come  designin' — " 
"To  see  my  Ma.^    She's  sprinklin'  clo'es 
Agin  to-morrer's  i'nin'." 

To  say  why  gals  act  so  or  so. 

Or  don't  'ould  be  presumin' ; 
Mebby  to  mean  yes  an'  say  no 

Comes  nateral  to  women. 

He  stood  a  spell  on  one  foot  fust. 

Then  stood  a  spell  on  t'other. 
An'  on  which  one  he  felt  the  wust 

He  couldn't  ha'  told  ye  nuther. 

Says  he,  "  I'd  better  call  agin  ;"  • 

Says  she  "  Think  likely,  Mister  ;" 

That  last  word  pricked  him  like  a  pin, 
An'  ....  Wal,  he  up  an'  kist  her. 

When  Ma  bimeby  upon  'em  slips, 

Huldy  sot  pale  ez  ashes, 
All  kin'  o'  smily  roun'  the  lips 

An'  teary  roun'  the  lashes. 

For  she  was  jes'  the  quiet  kind 

Whose  naturs  never  vary. 
Like  streams  that  keep  a  summer  mind 

Snowhid  in  Jenooary. 

The  blood  clost  roun'  her  heart  felt  glued 

Too  tight  for  all  expressin'. 
Till  mother  see  how  metters  stood. 

And  gin  'em  both  her  blessin'. 

Then  her  red  come  back  like  the  tide 

Down  to  the  Bay  o'  Fundy, 
An'  all  I  know  is,  they  was  cried 

In  meetin'  come  nex'  Sunday. 

James  Russell  Lowell. 


&: 


CONSTANCY 

T  setting  day  and  rising  mom, 

With  soul  that  still  shall  love  thee, 
'11  ask  of  Heaven  thy  safe  return, 
With  all  that  can  improve  thee. 
I'll  visit  aft  the  birken  bush, 

Where  first  thou  kindly  told  me 
Sweet  tales  of  love,  and  hid  thy  blush. 

Whilst  round  thou  didst  infold  me 
To  all  our  haunts  I  will  repair. 

By  greenwood  shaw  or  fountain  ; 
Or  where  the  summer  day  I'd  share 

With  thee  upon  yon  mountain  ; 
There  will  I  tell  the  trees  and  floweris. 

From  thoughts  unfeigned  and  tender, 
By  vows  you're  mine,  by  love  is  yours 
A  heart  which  cannot  wander. 

All.\n  Ramsay. 


88 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


GONE  BEFORE. 

'  F  still  they  kept  their  earthly  place, 
The  friends  I  held  in  my  embrace, 

And  gave  to  death,  alas ! 
Could  I  have  learned  that  clear,  calm  faith 
That  looks  beyond  the  bounds  of  death. 
And  almost  longs  to  pass? 

Sometimes  I  think,  the  things  we  see 
Are  shadows  of  the  things  to  be ; 

That  what  we  plan  we  build  ; 
That  every  hope  that  hath  been  crossed, 
And  every  dream  we  thought  was  lost. 

In  heaven  shall  be  fulfilled  ; 

That  even  the  children  of  the  brain 
Have  not  been  born  and  died  in  vain. 

Though  here  unclothed  and  dumb ! 
But  on  some  brighter,  better  shore, 
They  live,  embodied  evermore, 

And  wait  for  us  to  come. 

And  when  on  that  last  day  we  rise, 
Caught  up  between  the  earth  and  skies, 

Then  shall  we  hear  our  Lord 
Say,  Thou  hast  done  with  doubt  and  death. 
Henceforth,  according  to  thy  faith, 

Shall  be  thy  faith's  reward. 

Phoebe  Cary. 

HAPPY  MATCHES. 

'  AY,  mighty  Love,  and  teach  my  song. 
To  whom  thy  sweetest  joys  belong, 

And  who  the  happy  pairs 
Whose  yielding  hearts,  and  joining  hands. 
Find  blessings  twisted  with  their  bands. 
To  soften  all  their  cares. 

Not  tlie  wild  herd  of  nymphs  and  swains 
That  thoughtless  fly  into  thy  chains 

As  custom  leads  the  way  : 
If  there  be  bliss  without  design, 
Ivies  and  oaks  may  grow  and  twine. 

And  be  as  blest  as  they. 

Not  sordid  souls  of  earthly  mould, 
Who,  drawn  by  kindred  charms  of  gold, 

To  dull  embraces  move  : 
So  two  rich  mountains  of  Peru 
May  rush  to  wealthy  marriage  too, 

And  make  a  world  of  love. 

Not  the  mad  tribe  that  hell  inspires 
With  wanton  flames ;  those  raging  fires 

The  purer  bliss  destroy  ; 
On  ^Etna's  top  let  furies  wed. 
And  sheets  of  lightning  dress  the  bed 

T'  improve  the  burning  joy. 

Nor  the  dull  pairs  whose  marble  forms 
None  of  the  melting  passions  warms,     "" 
Can  mingle  hearts  and  hands  : 


Logs  of  green  wood  that  quench  the  coals 
Are  married  just  like  Stoic  souls. 
With  osiers  for  their  bands. 

Not  minds  of  melancholy  strain, 
Still  silent,  or  that  still  complain, 

Can  the  dear  bondage  bless  ; 
As  well  may  heavenly  concerts  spring 
From  two  old  lutes  with  ne'er  a  string. 

Or  none  besides  the  bass. 

Nor  can  the  soft  enchantments  hold 
Two  jarring  souls  of  angry  mould, 

The  rugged  and  the  keen  : 
Samson's  young  foxes  might  as  well 
In  bonds  of  cheerful  wedlock  dwell. 

With  firebrands  tied  between. 

Nor  let  the  cruel  fetters  bind 
A  gentle  to  a  savage  mind  ; 

For  love  abhors  the  sight : 
Loose  the  fierce  tiger  from  the  deer, 
For  native  rage  and  native  fear 

Rise  and  forbid  deliglii. 

Two  kindest  souls  alone  must  meet, 
'Tis  friendship  makes  the  bondage  sweet. 

And  feeds  their  mutual  loves  : 
Bright  Venus  on  her  rolling  throne 
Is  drawn  by  gentlest  birds  alone, 

And  cupids  yoke  the  doves. 

Isaac  Watts. 


THE  DEAD  FRIEND. 

'HE  path  by  which  we  twain  did  go, 

Which  led  by  tracts  that  pleased  us  well, 
Through  four  sweet  years  arose  and  fell, 
■^        From  flower  to  flower,  from  snow  to  snow. 

But  where  the  path  we  walked  began 
To  slant  the  fifth  autumnal  slope. 
As  we  descended,  following  hope. 

There  sat  the  shadow  feared  of  man  ; 

Who  broke  our  fair  companionship. 
And  spread  his  mantle  dark  and  cold. 
And  wrapped  thee  formless  in  the  fold. 

And  dulled  the  murmur  on  thy  lip. 

When  each  by  turns  was  guide  to  each. 
And  fancy  light  from  fancy  caught, 
And  thought  leapt  out  to  wed  with  thought 

Ere  thought  could  wed  itself  with  speech ; 

And  all  we  met  was  fair  and  good, 
And  all  was  good  that  time  could  bring, 
And  all  the  secret  of  the  Spring 

Moved  in  the  chambers  of  the  blood  ; 

I  know  that  this  was  life — the  track 
Whereon  with  equal  feet  we  fared  ; 
And  then,  as  now,  the  day  prepared 

The  daily  burden  for  the  back. 


LOVE  AND   FRIENDSHIP. 


89 


But  this  it  was  that  made  me  move 

As  light  as  carrier-birds  in  air  ; 

I  loved  the  weight  I  had  to  bear 
Because  it  needed  help  of  love. 

Nor  could  I  weary,  heart  or  limb, 
When  mighty  love  would  cleave  in  twain 
The  lading  of  a  single  pain, 

And  part  it,  giving  half  to  him. 

But  I  remained,  whose  hopes  were  dim, 
Whose  life,  whose  thoughts  were  litttle  worth, 
To  wander  on  a  darkened  earth, 

Where  all  things  round  me  breathed  of  him. 

O  friendship,  equal-poised  control, 
O  heart,  with  kindliest  motion  warm, 

0  sacred  essence,  other  form, 

0  solemn  ghost,  O  crowned  soul  ! 

Yet  none  could  better  know  than  I 
How  much  of  act  at  human  hands 
"The  sense  of  human  will  demands, 
By  which  we  dare  to  live  or  die. 

Whatever  way  my  days  decline, 

1  felt  and  feel,  though  left  alone. 
His  being  working  in  mine  own, 

The  footseps  of  his  life  in  mine. 

My  pulses  therefore  beat  again 

For  other  friends  1  hat  once  I  met ; 

Nor  can  it  suit  me  to  forget 
The  mighty  hopes  that  make  us  men. 

1  woo  your  love  :  I  count  it  crime 
To  mourn  for  any  overmuch  ; 
I,  the  divided  half  of  such 

A  friendship  as  had  mastered  time  ; 

Which  masters  time,  indeed,  and  is 
Eternal,  separate  from  fears  : 
The  all-assuming  months  and  years 

Can  take  no  part  away  from  this. 

0  days  and  hours,  your  work  is  this, 
To  hold  me  from  my  proper  place 
A  little  while  from  his  embrace, 

For  fuller  gain  of  after  bliss. 

That  out  of  distance  might  ensue 

Desire  of  nearness  doubly  sweet ; 

And  unto  meeting  when  we  meet. 
Delight  a  hundred  fold  accrue. 

The  hills  are  shadows,  and  they  flow 
From  form  to  form,  and  nothing  stands ; 
They  melt  like  mists,  the  solid  lands, 

Like  clouds  they  shape  themselves  and  go. 

But  in  my  spirit  will  I  dwell, 

And  dream  my  dream,  and  hold  it  tn:e  ; 
For  though  my  lips  may  breathe  adieu, 

1  cannot  think  the  thing  farewell. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


A  BENEDICTION. 

,OD'S  love  and  peace  be  with  thee,  where 
Soe'er  this  soft  autumnal  air 
Lifts  the  dark  tresses  of  thy  hair  ! 

Whether  through  city  casements  comes 
Its  kiss  to  thee,  in  crowded  rooms. 
Or,  out  among  the  woodland  blooms. 

It  freshens  o'er  thy  thoughtful  face. 
Imparting,  in  its  glad  embrace, 
Beauty  to  beauty,  grace  to  grace  ! 

■#:// 
Fair  nature's  book  together  read, 
The  old  wood  paths  that  knew  our  tread, 
The  maple  shadows  overhead — 

The  hills  we  climbed,  the  river  seen 
By  gleams  along  its  deep  ravine — 
AH  keep  thy  memory  fresh  and  green. 

If,  then,  a  fervent  wish  for  thee 

The  gracious  heavens  will  heed  from  me. 

What  should,  dear  heart,  its  burden  be  ? 

The  sighing  of  a  shaken  reed — 
What  can  I  more  than  meekly  plead 
The  greatftess  of  our  common  need  ? 

God's  love — unchanging,  pure  and  true — 
The  Paraclete  white-shining  through 
His  peace — ^the  fall  of  Hermon's  dew ! 

With  such  a  prayer,  on  this  sweet  day. 
As  thou  mayst  hear  and  I  may  say, 
I  greet  thee,  dearest,  far  away  ! 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


TO  A  FRIEND. 

RUDDY  drop  of  manly  blood 
The  surging  sea  outweighs  ; 
The  world  uncertain  comes  and  goes, 
The  lover  rooted  stays. 
I  fancied  he  was  fled — 
And,  after  many  a  year. 
Glowed  unexhausted  kindliness. 
Like  daily  sunrise  there. 
My  careful  heart  was  free  again  ; 
O  friend,  my  bosom  said, 
Through  thee  alone  the  sky  is  arched, 
Through  thee  the  rose  is  red  ; 
All  things  through  thee  take  nobler  form, 
And  look  beyond  the  earth  ; 
The  mill-round  of  our  fate  appears 
A  sun-path  in  thy  worth. 
Me  too  thy  nobleness  has  taught 
To  master  my  despair; 
The  fountains  of  my  hidden  life 
Are  through  thy  friendship  fair. 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson- 


90 


CROWN   JEWELS. 


JEWISH  HYMN  IN  BABYLON. 

'ER  Judah's  land  thy  thunders  broke,  O  Lord! 
The  chariots  rattled  o'er  her  sunken  gate, 
Her  sons  were  wasted   by  the  Assyrian's 
sword, 

Even  her  foes  wept  to  see  her  fallen  state ; 
And  heaps  her  ivory  palaces  became, 
Her  princes  wore  the  captive's  garb  of  shame, 
Her  temples  sank  amid  the  smouldering  flame, 

For  thou  didst  ride  the  tempest  cloud  of  fate. 
O'er  Judah's  land  thy  rainbow,  Lord,  shall  beam, 

And  the  sad  city  lift  her  crownless  head, 
And  songs  shall  wake  and  dancing  footsteps  gleam 

In  streets  where  broods  the  silence  of  the  dead. 
The  sun  shall  shine  on  Salem's  gilded  towers, 
On  Carmel's  side  our  maidens  cull  the  flowers 
To  deck  at  blushing  eve  their  bridal  bowers, 

And  angel  feet  the  glittering  Sion  tread. 
The  bom  in  sorrow  shall  bring  forth  in  joy ; 

Thy  mercy,  Lord,  shall  lead  thy  children  home ; 
He  that  went  forth  a  tender  prattling  boy 

Yet,  ere  he  die,  to  Salem's  streets  shall  come  ; 
And  Canaan's  vines  for  us  their  fruit  shall  bear, 
And  Hermon's  bees  their  honeyed  stores  prepare, 
And  we  shall  kneel  again  in  thankful  prayer, 

Where  o'er  the  cherub-seated  God  full  blazed  the 

irradiate  dome, 

«  Henry  Hart  Milman. 


The  emerald  mild,  the  ruby  gay  ; 
Talk  of  my  gem,  Anne  Hathaway  ! 
She  hath  a  way,  with  her  bright  eye. 
Their  various  lustres  to  defy — 
The  jewels  she,  and  the  foil  they, 
So  sweet  to  look  Anne  hath  a  way  ! 

She  hath  a  way, 

Anne  Hathaway  ; 
To  shame  bright  gems,  Anne  hath  a  way. 


m 


ANNE  HATHAWAY. 

jp^OULD  ye  be  taught,  ye  feathered  throng, 

With  love's    sweet    notes  to    grace  your 
song, 

To  pierce  the  heart  with  thrilling  lay. 
Listen  to  mine  Anne  Hathaway  ! 
She  hath  a  way  to  sing  so  clear, 
Phoebus  might  wondering  stop  to  hear. 
To  melt  the  sad,  make  blithe  the  gay, 
And  nature  charm,  Anne  hath  a  way  ; 

She  hath  a  way, 

Anne  Hathaway ; 
To  breathe  delight  Anne  hath  a  way. 

When  envy's  breath  and  rancorous  tooth 

Do  soil  and  bite  fair  worth  and  truth. 

And  merit  to  distress  betray, 

To  soothe  the  heart  Anne  hath  a  way  ; 

She  hath  a  way  to  chase  despair, 

To  heal  all  grief,  to  cure  all  care, 

Turn  foulest  night  to  fairest  day. 

Thou  know'st,  fond  heart,  Anne  hath  a  way  ; 

She  hath  a  way, 

Anne  Hathaway ; 
To  make  grief  bliss,  Anne  hath  a  way. 

Talk  not  of  gems,  the  orient  list. 
The  diamond,  topaz,  amethyst. 


THE  WIDOWS  WOOER. 

E  woos  me  with  those  honeyed  words 

That  women  love  to  hear, 
Those  gentle  flatteries  that  fall 

So  sweet  on  every  ear. 
He  tells  me  that  my  face  is  fair, 

Too  fair  for  grief  to  shade : 
My  cheek,  he  says,  was  never  meant 

In  sorrow's  gloom  to  fade. 

He  stands  beside  me,  when  I  sing 

The  songs  of  other  days, 
And  whispers,  in  love's  thrilling  tones, 

The  words  of  heartfelt  praise  ; 
And  often  in  my  eyes  he  looks, 

Some  answering  love  to  see — 
In  vain  !  he  there  can  only  read 

The  faith  of  memory. 

He  little  knows  what  thoughts  awake 

With  every  gentle  word  ; 
How,  by  his  looks  and  tones,  the  founts 

Of  tenderness  are  stirreJ, 
The  visions  of  my  youth  return, 

Joys  far  too  bright  to  last ; 
And  while  he  speaks  of  future  bliss, 

I  think  but  of  the  past. 

Like  lamps  in  eastern  sepulchres, 

Amid  my  heart's  deep  gloom, 
Affection  sheds  its  holiest  light 

Upon  my  husband's  tomb. 
And,  as  those  lamps,  if  brought  once  more 

To  upper  air,  grow  dim. 
So  my  soul's  love  is  cold  and  dead, 

Unless  it  glow  for  him. 

Emma  C.  Embury. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  FRIEND. 

REEN  be  the  turf  above  thee. 
Friend  of  my  better  days  ! 
None  knew  thee  but  to  love  thee, 
Nor  named  thee  but  to  praise. 

Tears  fell,  when  thou  wert  dying. 
From  eyes  unused  to  weep. 

And  long,  where  thou  art  lying, 
Will  tears  the  cold  turf  steep. 


LOVK   AND   FRIENDSHIP. 


01 


When  hearts,  whose  truth  was  proven, 

Like  thine,  are  laid  in  earth, 
There  should  a  wreath  be  woven 

To  tell  the  world  their  worth. 

And  I,  who  woke  each  morrow 

To  clasp  thine  hand  in  mine, 
Who  shared  the  joy  and  sorrow. 

Whose  weal  and  wo  were  thine — 

It  should  be  mine  to  braid  it 

Around  thy  faded  brow  ; 
But  I've  in  vain  essayed  it, 

And  feel  I  cannot  now. 

While  memory  bids  me  weep  thee, 
Nor  thoughts  nor  words  are  free, 

The  grief  is  fixed  too  deeply 
That  mourns  a  man  like  thee. 

FiTZ  Greene  Halleck. 


THE  MEMORY  OF  THE  HEART. 

'  F  stores  of  dry  and  learned  lore  we  gain, 
We  keep  them  in  the  memory  of  the  brain  ; 
Names,  things,  and  facts — whate'er  we  knowledge 
call- 
There  is  the  common  ledger  for  them  all ; 
And  images  on  this  cold  surface  traced 
Make  slight  impression,  and  are  soon  effaced. 
But  we've  a  page,  more  glowing  and  more  bright, 
On  which  our  friendship  and  our  love  to  write  ; 
That  these  may  never  from  tlie  soul  depart, 
We  trust  them  to  the  memory  of  the  heart. 
There  is  no  dimming,  no  efTacement  there  ; 
Each  new  pulsation  keeps  the  record  clear  ; 
Warm,  golden  letters  all  the  tablet  fill. 
Nor  lose  their  lustre  till  the  heart  stands  still. 

Daniel,  Webster. 


^ 


ROBIN  ADAIR. 

HAT'S  this  dull  town  to  me  ? 
Robin's  not  near — 
He  whom  I  wished  to  see. 

Wished  for  to  hear ; 

Where's  all  the  joy  and  mirth 

Made  life  a  heaven  on  earth, 

O,  they're  all  fled  with  thee, 

Robin  Adair ! 

What  made  the  assembly  shine  ? 

Robin  Adair : 
What  made  the  ball  so  fine  ? 

Robin  was  there : 
What,  when  the  play  was  o'er, 
What  made  my  heart  so  sore  ? 
O,  it  was  parting  with 

Robin  Adair ! 


But  now  thou  art  far  from  me, 

Robin  Adair ; 
But  now  I  never  see 

Robin  Adair  ; 
Yet  him  I  loved  so  well 
Still  in  my  heart  shall  dwell 
O,  I  can  ne'er  forget 

Robin  Adair ! 

Welcome  on  shore  again, 

Robin  Adair ! 
Welcome  once  more  again, 

Robin  Adair ! 
I  feel  thy  trembling  hand ; 
Tears  in  thy  eyelids  stand, 
To  greet  thy  native  land, 

Robin  Adair. 

Long  I  ne'er  saw  thee,  love, 

Robin  Adair ; 
Still  I  prayed  for  thee,  love, 

Robin  Adair ; 
When  thou  wert  far  at  sea, 
Many  made  love  to  me. 
But  still  I  thought  on  thee, 

Robin  Adair. 

Come  to  my  heart  again, 

Robin  Adair; 
Never  to  part  again, 

Robin  Adair; 
And  if  thou  still  art  true, 
I  will  be  constant  too. 
And  will  wed  none  but  you, 

Robin  Adair! 

Lady  Caroline  Keppel. 


THE  MAID'S  REMONSTRANCE. 

EVER  wedding,  ever  wooing. 
Still  a  lovelorn  heart  pursuing, 
Read  you  not  the  wrong  you're  doing 

In  my  cheek's  pale  hue? 
All  my  life  with  sorrow  strewing. 

Wed,  or  cease  to  woo. 

Rivals  banished,  bosoms  plighted 
Still  our  days  are  disunited  ; 
Now  the  lamp  of  hope  is  lighted, 

Now  half  quenched  appears, 
Damped  and  wavering  and  benighted 

Midst  my  sighs  and  tears. 

Charms  you  call  your  dearest  blessing. 
Lips  that  thrill  at  your  caressing, 
Eyes  a  mutual  soul  confessing. 

Soon  you'll  make  them  grow 
Dim,  and  worthless  your  possessing, 

Not  with  age,  but  woe  ! 

Thcmas  Campbell. 


92 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


NO  TIME  LIKE  THE  OLD  TIME. 

'HERE  is  no  time  like  the  old  time,  when  you 
and  I  were  young, 
When  the  buds  of  April  blossomed,  and  the 
'f  birds  of  springtime  sung  ! 

The  garden's  brightest  glories  by  summer  suns  are 

nursed, 
But,  oh,  the  sweet,  sweet  violets,  the  flowers  that  opened 
first ! 

There  is  no  place  like  the  old  place  where  you  and  I 

were  born  ! 
Where  we  lifted  first  our  eyelids  on  the  splendors  of 

the  morn. 
From  the  milk-white  breast  that  warmed  us,  from  the 

clinging  arms  that  bore. 
Where  the  dear  eyes  glistened  o'er  us  that  will  look  on 

us  no  more ! 

There  is  no  friend  like  the  old  friend  who  has  shared 

our  morning  days, 
No  greeting  like  his  welcome,  no  homage  like  his 

praise ; 
Fame  is  the  scentless  sunflower,  with  gaudy  crown  of 

gold, 
But  friendship  is  the  breathing  rose,  with  sweets  in 

every  fold. 

There  is  no  love  like  the  old  love  that  we  courted  in 

our  pride ; 
Though  our  leaves  are  falling,  falling,  and  we're  fading 

side  by  side, 
There  are  blossoms  all  around  us  with  the  colors  of 

our  dawn. 
And  we  live  in  borrowed  sunshine  when  the  light  of 

day  is  gone. 

There  are  no  times  like  the  old  times — they  shall  never 

be  forgot ! 
There  is  no  place  like  the  old  place—  keep  green  the 

dear  old  spot ! 
There  are  no  friends  like  our  old  friends — may  Heaven 

prolong  their  lives  ! 
There  are  no  loves  like  our  old  loves — God  bless  our 

loving  wives  ! 


THE  MAIDEN  SAT  AT  HER  BUSY   WHEEL. 

HE  maiden  sat  at  her  busy  wheel, 
Her  heart  was  light  and  free, 
And  ever  in  cheerful  song  broke  forth 
■^  Her  bosom's  harmless  glee  : 

Her  song  was  in  mockery  of  love, 
And  oft  I  heard  her  say, 
"The  gathered  rose  and  the  stolen  heart 
Can  charm  but  for  a  day." 

I  looked  on  the  maiden's  rosy  cheek, 
And  her  lip  so  full  and  bright,  ' 


And  I  sighed  to  think  that  the  traitor  love 

Should  conquer  a  heart  so  light : 
But  she  thought  not  of  the  future  days  of  woe, 

While  she  carolled  in  tones  so  gay — 
"The  gathered  rose  and  the  stolen  heart 

Can  charm  but  for  a  day." 

A  year  passed  on,  and  again  I  stood 

By  the  humble  cottage  door  ; 
The  maiden  sat  at  her  busy  wheel, 

But  her  look  was  blithe  no  more  ; 
The  big  tear  stood  in  her  downcast  eye, 

And  with  sighs  I  heard  her  say, 
"The  gathered  rose  and  the  stolen  heart 

Can  charm  but  for  a  day." 

Oh,  well  I  knew  what  had  dimmed  her  eye 

And  made  her  cheek  so  pale  : 
The  maid  had  forgotten  her  early  song. 

While  she  listened  to  love's  soft  tale  ; 
She  had  tasted  the  sweets  of  his  poisoned  cup, 

It  had  wasted  her  life  away — 
And  the  stolen  heart,  like  the  gathered  rose, 

Had  charmed  but  for  a  day. 

Emma  C.  Embury. 


AFTON  WATER. 

-^-^  LOW  gently,   sweet  Afton,  among  thy  green 

•^Y~  braes ; 

A  Flow  gently,    I'll   sing    thee  a  song    in    thy 

praise ; 
My  Mary's  asleep  by  thy  murmuring  stream. 
Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  disturb  not  her  dream. 

Thou  stock-dove  whose  echo  resounds  through  the  glen. 
Ye  wild  whistling  blackbirds  in  yon  thorny  den, 
Thou  green-crested  lapwing,  thy  screaming  forbear  ; 
I  charge  you  disturb  not  my  slumbering  fair. 

How  lofty,  sweet  Afton,  thy  neighboring  hills, 
Far  marked  with  the  courses  of  clear-wniding  rills  ! 
There  daily  I  wander  as  noon  rises  high. 
My  flocks  and  my  Mary's  sweet  cot  in  my  eye. 

How  pleasant  thy  banks  and  green  valleys  below. 
Where  wild  in  the  woodlands  the  primroses  blow ! 
There  oft  as  mild  evening  weeps  over  the  lea. 
The  sweet-scented  birk  shades  my  Mary  and  me. 

Thy  crystal  stream,  Afton,  how  lovely  it  glides. 
And  winds  by  the  cot  where  my  Mary  resides  ; 
How  wanton  thy  waters  her  snowy  feet  lave, 
As,  gathering  sweet  flowerets,  she  stems  thy  clear  wave ! 

Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  among  thy  green  braes  ; 
Flow  gently,  sweet  river,  the  theme  of  my  lays  ; 
My  Mary's  asleep  by  thy  murmuring  stream. 
Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  disturb  not  her  dream. 

Robert  Burns. 


LOVE  AND   FRIENDSHIP. 


93 


THE  WAKEFUL  HEART. 

'READ  lightly,  love,  when  over  my  head, 
Beneath  the  daisies  lying, 
And  tenderly  press  the  grassy  bed 
"f*  Where  the  fallen  rose  lies  dying. 

Dreamless  I  sleep  in  the  quiet  g:round, 

Save  when,  your  foot-fall  hearing, 
My  heart  awakes  to  the  old-loved  sound 

And  beats  to  the  step  that's  nearing. 

Bright  shone  the  moon,  last  eve,  when  you  came — 

Still  dust  for  dust  hath  feeling — 
The  willow-roots  whispered  low  the  name 

Of  him  who  weeps  while  kneeling. 

The  lily-cup  holds  the  falling  tears, 

The  tears  you  shed  above  me  ; 
And  I  know  through  all  these  silent  years 

There's  some  one  still  to  love  me. 

Oh,  softly  sigh ;  for  I  hear  the  sound 

And  grieve  me  o'er  your  sorrow  : 
But  leave  a  kiss  in  the  myrtle  mound — 

I'll  give  it  back  to-morrow. 

Whisper  me,  love,  as  in  moments  fled, 
While  I  dream  your  hand  mine  taketh  ; 

For  the  stone  speaks  false  that  says,  "  She's  dead  ;"' 
"I  sleep,  but  my  heart  awaketh." 

•  Dennar  Stewart. 


^. 


MINNIE  ADAIR. 

I  thought  her  so  pretty  and  called  her  my 
own. 
As  the  rich  sunlight  played  in  and  out  of 
^*^  her  curls, 

As  her  little  white  feet  'mid  the  violets  shone, 
And  her  clear  laughter  rippled  through  rubies  and 
pearls. 

Through  June's  golden  mazes 
Of  pansies  and  daisies 
We  wandered  and  warbled  our  songs  on  the  air ; 
O,  the  birds,  a  whole  tree  full. 
Were  never  more  gleeful 
Than  I  and  my  sweet  little  Minnie  Adair  ! 

They  come  now  and  tell  me  that  you're  to  be  wed, 
That  rank  has  encircled  your  brow  with  its  rays, 
But  when  in  your  beautiful  palace  you  tread, 
With  many  to  flatter  you,  many  to  praise, 
Shall  June's  golden  mazes 
Of  pansies  and  daisies, 
And  the  bare-footed  playmate  who  thought  you  so 
fair — 

Who  wept  at  your  sadness, 
And  shared  in  your  gladness — 
Be  lost  in  their  splendor,  O  Minnie  Adair  ? 

Lyman  Goodman. 


SMILE  AND  NEVER   HEED  ME. 

'HOUGH,  when  other  maids  .stand  by, 
I  may  deign  thee  no  reply, 
Tu!  n  not  then  away,  and  sigh — 
Smile  and  never  heed  me  ! 
If  our  love  indeed,  be  such, 
As  must  thrill  at  every  touch. 
Why  should  others  learn  as  much  ? — 
Smile,  and  never  heed  me  ! 

Even  if,  with  maiden  pride, 
I  should  bid  thee  quit  my  side, 
Take  this  lesson  for  thy  guide — 

Smile,  and  never  heed  me ! 
But  when  stars  and  twilight  meet, 
And  the  dew  is  falling  sweet. 
And  thou  hear'st  my  coming  feet — 

Then — thou  then — mayst  heed  me ! 

Charles  Swain. 


THE  LASS  OF  RICHMOND  HILL 

N  Richmond  Hill  there  lives  a  lass 

More  bright  than  May-day  morn. 
Whose  charms  all  other  maids  surpass — 
A  rose  without  a  thorn. 

This  lass  so  neat,  with  smiles  so  sweet. 
Has  won  my  right  good-will ; 

I'd  crowns  resign  to  call  her  mine. 
Sweet  lass  of  Richmond  Hill. 

Ye  zephyrs  gay,  that  fan  the  air, 
And  wanton  through  the  grove, 

O,  whisper  to  my  charming  fair, 
I  die  for  her  I  love. 

How  happy  will  the  shepherd  be 
Who  calls  this  nymph  his  own  ? 

O,  may  her  choice  be  fixed  on  me  ! 
Mine's  fixed  on  her  alone. 

James  Upton. 


UNITED  LIVES. 

SAD  are  they  who  know  not  love. 

But,  far  from  passion's  tears  and  smiles, 
•     Drift  down  a  moonless  sea,  and  pass 
The  silver  coasts  of  fairy  isles. 

And  sadder  they  whose  longing  lips 
Kiss  empty  air,  and  never  touch 

The  dear  warm  mouth  of  those  they  love, 
Waiting,  wasting,  suffering  much  ! 

But  clear  as  amber,  sweet  as  musk, 
Is  life  to  those  whose  lives  unite  ; 

They  walk  in  Allah's  smile  by  day. 
And  nestle  in  his  heart  by  night. 

Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich. 


94 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


OH  !  TELL  ME  NOT  OF  LOFTY  FATE. 


H  !  tell  me  not  of  lofty  fate, 
Of  glory's  deathless  name  ; 
The  bosom  love  leaves  desolate 
Has  naught  to  do  with  fame. 

Vainly  philosophy  would  soar — 

Love's  height  it  may  not  reach; 
The  heart  soon  learns  a  sweeter  lore 

Than  ever  sage  could  teach. 

Man's  sterner  nature  turns  away 

To  seek  ambition's  goal ! 
Wealth's  glittering  gifts,  and  pleasure's  ray, 

May  charm  his  weary  soul ; 

But  woman  knows  one  only  dream — 

That  broken,  all  is  o'er; 
For  on  life's  dark  and  sluggish  stream 

Hope's  sunbeam  rests  no  more. 

Emma  C.  Embury. 


SOMEBODY. 

OMEBODY'S  courting  somebody. 
Somewhere  or  other  to  night ; 
Somebody's  whispering  to  somebody, 
Somebody's  listening  to  somebody, 
Under  this  clear  moonlight. 

Near  the  bright  river's  flow, 
Running  so  still  and  slow. 
Talking  so  soft  and  low, 
She  sits  with  somebody. 

Pacing  the  ocean's  shore. 
Edged  by  the  foaming  roar. 
Words  never  used  before 
Sound  sweet  to  somebody. 

Under  the  maple  tree. 
Deep  though  the  shadow  be, 
Plain  enough  they  can  see, 
Bright  eyes  has  somebody. 

No  one  sits  up  to  wait, 
Though  she  is  out  so  late. 
All  know  she's  at  the  gate, 
Talking  with  somebody. 

Tiptoe  to  parlor  door  ;        ' 
Two  shadows  on  the  floor ! 
Moonlight,  reveal  no  more — 
Susy  and  somebody. 

Two,  sitting  side  by  side, 
Float  with  the  ebbing  tide, 
"Thus,  dearest,  may  we  glide 

Through  life,"  says  somebody. 

Somewhere,  somebody 
Makes  love  to  somebody, 
To-night. 


THOUGH  LOST  TO  SIGHT  TO  MEMORY 
DEAR. 

'  WEETHEART,  good  bye  !    That  flut'ring  sail 
Is  spread  to  waft  me  far  from  thee  ; 
And  soon,  before  the  farth'ring  gale 
My  ship  shall  bound  upon  the  sea. 
Perchance,  all  des'late  and  forlorn, 

These  eyes  shall  miss  thee  many  a  year  ; 
But  unforgotten  every  charm — 
Though  lost  to  sight,  to  memory  dear. 

Sweetheart,  good  bye !  one  last  embrace  ! 

Oh,  cruel  fate,  two  souls  to  sever  ! 
Yet  in  this  heart's  most  sacred  place 

Thou,  thou  alone,  shalt  dwell  forever ; 
And  still  shall  recollection  trace, 

In  fancy's  mirror,  ever  near. 
Each  smile,  each  tear,  that  form,  that  face — 
Though  lost  to  sight,  to  memory  dear. 

Thomas  Moore. 


EVENING  SONG. 

OOK  off,  dear  Love,  across  the  sallow  sands. 
And  mark  yon  meeting  of  the  sun  and  sea  ; 
How  long  they  kiss  in  sight  of  all  the  lands — 
Ah  !  longer,  longer  we. 

Now  in  the  sea's  red  vintage  melts  the  sun, 
As  Egypt's  pearl  dissolved  in  rosy  wine, 
And  Cleopatra  night  drinks  all.     'Tis  done. 
Love,  lay  thine  hand  in  mine. 

Come  forth,  sweet  stars,  and  comfort  heaven's  heart ; 

Glimmer,  ye  waves,  round  else  unlighted  sands ; 
O  night !  divorce  our  sun  and  sky  apart — 
Never  our  lips,  our  hands. 

Sidney  Lanier. 


^ 


A  MAIDEN'S  IDEAL  OF  A  HUSBAND. 

,  ENTEEL  in  personage. 
Conduct  and  equipage, 
Noble  by  heritage, 
Generous  and  free : 

Brave,  not  romantic ; 
Learned,  not  pedantic ; 
Frolic,  not  frantic ; 
This  must  he  be. 

Honor  maintaining, 
Meanness  disdaining. 
Still  entertaining. 

Engaging  and  new. 
Neat,  but  not  finical ; 
Sage,  but  not  cynical ; 
Never  tyrannical, 

But  ever  true. 

Henry  Carky. 


LOVE  AND   FRIENDSHIP. 


95 


NEW  LOVELINESS. 

E  stars  that  look  at  me  to-night, 

How  beautiful  you  seem  ! 
For  I  have  found  my  spirit's  light, 

The  seraph  of  my  dream. 
Oh  !  never  half  so  bright  before 

Have  I  beheld  you  shine, 
For  heaven  itself  looks  lovelier, 

To  lover's  eyes  like  mine  ! 

Alas  !  I  fear  when  midnight  waits 

To  catch  my  voice,  in  vain 
The  list'ners  at  your  golden  gates 

Will  hear  some  other  twain, 
Whose  hearts  like  ours,  in  melody. 

Will  sadly  throb  and  sigh, 
To  see  how  calmly  you  behold 

E'en  lovers  kiss,  and — die  ! 

Edward  Pollock. 

SWEET  AND  LOW. 

WEET  and  low,  sweet  and  low. 

Wind  of  the  western  sea. 

Low,  low,  breathe  and  blow. 

Wind  of  the  western  sea  I 

Over  the  rolling  waters  go, 

Come  from  the  dying  moon  and  blow, 
Blow  him  again  to  me  ; 
While  my  little  one,  while  my  pretty  one  sleeps. 

Sleep  and  rest,  sleep  and  rest. 

Father  will  come  to  thee  soon : 
Rest,  rest  on  mother's  breast, 

Father  will  come  to  thee  soon  ; 
Father  will  come  to  his  babe  m  the  nest, 

Silver  sails  all  out  of  the  west, 
Under  the  silver  moon  ; 

Sleep,  my  little  one,  sleep  my  pretty  one,  sleep. 
Alfred  Tennyson. 


Remember  me — but,  loveliest,  ne'er 

When,  in  his  orbit  fair  and  high. 
The  morning's  glowing  charioteer 

Rides  proudly  up  the  blushing  sky ; 
But  when  the  waning  moonbeam  sleeps 

At  moonlight  on  that  lonely  lea. 
And  nature's  pensive  spirit  weeps 

In  all  her  dews,  remember  me. 

Remember  me — but  choose  not,  dear,   - 

The  hour  when,  on  the  gentle  lake. 
The  sportive  wavelets,  blue  and  clear. 

Soft  rippling,  to  the  margin  break ; 
But  when  the  deaf 'ning  billows  foam 

In  madness  o'er  the  pathless  sea. 
Then  let  thy  pilgrim  fancy  roam 

Across  them,  and  remember  me. 

Remember  me — but  not  to  join 

If  haply  some  thy  friends  should  praise  ; 
'Tis  far  too  dear,  that  voice  of  thine 

To  echo  what  the  stranger  says. 
They  know  us  not — but  shouldst  thou  meet 

Some  faithful  friend  of  me  and  thee, 
Softly,  sometimes,  to  him  repeat 

My  name,  and  then  remember  me. 

Remember  me — not,  I  entreat. 

In  scenes  of  festal  week-day  joy, 
For  then  it  were  not  kind  or  meet. 

Thy  thought  thy  pleasure  should  alloy. 
But  on  the  sacred,  solemn  day. 

And,  dearest,  on  thy  bended  knee. 
When  thou  for  those  thou  lovs't  dost  pray. 

Sweet  spirit,  then  remember  me. 

Edward  Everett. 


TO  A  SISTER. 

ES.  dear  one,  to  the  envied  train 

Of  those  around  thy  homage  pay ; 
But  wilt  thou  never  kindly  deign 
To  think  of  him  that's  far  away? 
Thy  form,  thine  eye,  thine  angel  smile, 

For  many  years  I  may  not  see  ; 
But  wilt  thou  not  sometimes  the  while, 
My  sister  dear,  remember  me  ? 

But  not  in  fashion's  brilliant  hall. 

Surrounded  by  the  gay  and  fair. 
And  thou  the  fairest  of  them  all — 

O,  think  not,  think  not  of  me  there. 
But  when  the  thoughtless  crowd  is  gone. 

And  hushed  the  voice  of  senseless  glee, 
And  all  is  silent,  still  and  lone. 

And  thou  art  sad,  remember  me. 


(3 


THE  RING'S  MOTTO. 

LOVER  gave  the  wedding-ring 
Into  a  goldsmith's  hand. 
"Grave  me,"  he  said,  "a  tender  thought 
Within  the  golden  band." 
The  goldsmith  graved 
With  careful  art — 
"Till  death  us  part." 

The  wedding-bells  rang  gladly  out. 

The  husband  said,  "  O  wife, 
Together  we  shall  share  the  grief. 
The  happiness  of  life. 
I  give  to  thee 
My  hand,  and  heart. 
Till  death  us  part." 

*Twas  she  that  lifted  now  his  hand, 

(O  love,  that  this  should  be  !) 

Then  on  it  placed  the  golden  band, 

And  whispered  tenderly ; 

"Till  death  us  join, 

Lo,  thou  art  mine 

And  I  am  thine  ! 


96 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


"And  when  death  joins  we  never  more 
Shall  know  an  aching  heart, 
The  bridal  of  that  better  love 
Death  has  no  power  to  part; 
That  troth  will  be 
For  thee  and  me 
Eternity," 

So  up  the  hill  and  down  the  hill 
Through  fifty  changing  years, 
They  shared  each  other's  happiness, 
They  dried  each  other's  tears. 
Alas !    Alas  I 
That  death's  cold  dart 
Such  love  can  part ! 

But  one  sad  day — she  stood  alone 

Beside  his  narrow  bed  ; 
She  drew  the  ring  from  off  her  hand, 
And  to  the  goldsmith  said  : 
"  Oh,  man  who  graved 
With  careful  art, 
'Till  death  us  part,' 

*'  Now  grave  four  other  words  for  me — 
'  Till  death  us  join.'  "     He  took 
The  precious  golden  band  once  more, 
With  solemn,  wistful  look. 
And  wrought  with  care. 
For  love,  not  coin, 
"Till  death  us  join." 


^ 


TO  ALTHEA  FROM  PRISON. 

HEN  love  with  unconfined  wings 

Hovers  within  my  gates, 

And  my  divine  Althea  brings 

To  whisper  at  my  grates  ; 

When  I  lie  tangled  in  her  hair 

And  fettered  with  her  eye, 
The  birds  that  wanton  in  the  air 
Know  no  such  liberty. 


When  flowing  cups  pass  swiftly  round 

With  no  allaying  Thames, 
Our  careless  heads  with  roses  crowned, 

Our  hearts  with  loyal  flames  ; 
When  thirsty  grief  in  wine  we  steep. 

When  healths  and  draughts  go  free, 
Fishes  that  tipple  in  the  deep 

Know  no  such  liberty. 

When,  linnet-like  confined, 

With  shriller  throat  shall  sing 
The  mercy,  sweetness,  majesty 

And  glories  of  my  King  ; 
When  I  shall  voice  aloud  how  good 

He  is,  how  great  should  be, 
The  enlarged  winds  that  curl  the  flood. 

Know  no  such  liberty. 


Stone  walls  do  not  a  prison  make, 

Nor  iron  bars  a  cage  ; 
Minds  innocent  and  quiet  take 

That  for  a  hermitage  : 
If  I  have  freedom  in  my  love. 

And  in  my  soul  am  free, 
Angels  alone,  that  soar  above. 

Enjoy  such  liberty. 

Richard  Lovelace. 

THE  DAY  IS  FIXED. 

T  last  the  happy  day  is  named. 

For  hearts  to  be  united. 
And  on  that  day  will  be  fulfilled 

The  vows  that  have  been  plighted  ; 
The  letter  comes  with  eager  haste, 

To  give  the  information. 
And  underneath  the  broken  seal 

Is  found  an  invitation. 

Three  maidens  fair  the  message  scan — 

Its  lines  with  meaning  freighted — 
And,  more  than  outward  looks  suggest. 

Their  breasts  are  agitated  ; 
Each  hoped  to  win  that  promised  hand. 

And  change  her  single  station, 
And  each  who  sought  receives  at  last, 

Receives — the  invitation  ! 

Henry  Davenport. 

THE  SHEPHERD'S  LAMENT. 


H,  the  poor  shepherd's  mornful  fate. 

When  doomed  to  love  and  doomed  to  lan- 
guish, 

To  bear  the  scornful  fair  one's  hate. 
Nor  dare  disclose  his  anguish  ! 
Yet  eager  looks  and  dying  sighs 

My  secret  soul  discover, 
While  rapture,  trembling  through  mine  eyes. 

Reveals  how  much  I  love  her. 
The  tender  glance,  the  reddening  cheek, 

O'erspread  with  rising  blushes, 
A  thousand  various  ways  they  speak 
A  thousand  various  wishes. 

For,  oh  !  that  form  so  heavenly  fair. 

Those  lanquid  eyes  so  sweetly  smiling. 
That  artless  blush  and  modest  air. 

So  fatally  beguiling  ; 
Thy  every  look,  and  every  grace. 

So  charm,  whene'er  I  view  thee. 
Till  death  o'ertake  me  in  the  chase. 

Still  will  my  hopes  pursue  thee. 
Then,  when  my  tedious  hours  are  past. 

Be  this  last  blessing  given. 
Low  at  thy  feet  to  breathe  my  last. 

And  die  in  sight  of  heaven. 

William  Hamilton. 


^*t^^^  -^* 


LOVE   AND    FRIENDSHIP. 


97 


LADY  BARBARA. 

ARL  G  A  WAIN  wooed  the  Lady  Barbara, 
High-thoughted  Barbara,  so  white  and  cold  ! 
'Mong  broad-branched  beeches  in  the  summer 
shaw, 
In  soft  green  light  his  passion  he  has  told. 
When  rain-beat  winds  did  shriek  across  the  wold, 
The  Earl  to  take  her  fair  reluctant  ear 
Framed  passion-trembled  ditties  manifold ; 
Silent  she  sat  his  amorous  breath  to  hear. 
With  calm  and  steadj'  ej'^es ;  her  heart  was  otherwhere. 

He  sighed  for  her  through  the  summer  weeks  ; 
Sitting  beneath  a  tree  whose  fruitful  boughs 
Bore  glofious  apples  with  smooth,  shining  cheeks. 
Earl  Gawain  cam.e  and  whispered,  "  Lady,  rouse  ! 
Thou  art  no  vestal  held  in  holy  vowb ; 
Out  with  our  falcons  to  the  pleasant  heath." 
Her  father's  blood  leapt  up  into  her  brows — 
He  who,  exulting  on  the  trumpet's  breath, 
Came  charging  like  a  star  across  the  lists  of  death. 

Trembled,  and  passed  before  her  high  rebuke  : 

And  then  she  sat,  he/  hands  clasped  round  her  knee : 

Like  one  far-thoughted  was  the  lady's  look, 

For  in  a  morning  cold  as  misery 

She  saw  a  lone  ship  sailing  on  the  sea ; 

Before  the  north  't  was  driven  like  a  cloud  ; 

High  on  the  poop  a  man  sat  mournfully : 

The  wind  was  whistling  through  mast  and  shroud, 

And  to  the  whistling  wind  thus  did  he  sing  aloud  : — 

"  Didst  look  last  night  upon  my  native  vales, 

Thou  Sun !  tliat  from  the  drenching  sea  hast  clomb  ? 

Ye  demon  winds  !  that  glut  my  gaping  sails, 

Upon  the  salt  sea  must  I  ever  roam, 

Wander  forever  on  the  barren  foam  ? 

O,  happy  are  ye,  resting  mariners  ! 

0  Death,  that  thou  wouldst  come  and  take  me  home  ! 
A  hand  unseen  this  vessel  onward  steers. 

And  onward  I  must  float  through  slow,  moon-measured 
years. 

"  Ye  winds  !  when  like  a  curse  j'e  drove  us  on. 

Frothing  the  waters,  and  along  our  way. 

Nor  cape  nor  headland  through  red  mornings  shone, 

One  wept  aloud,  one  shuddered  down  to  pray, 

One  howled,  '  Upon  tlie  deep  we  are  astray.' 

On  our  wild  hearts  his  words  fell  like  a  blight, 

In  one  short  hour  my  hair  was  stricken  gray, 

For  all  the  crew  sank  ghastly  in  my  sight, 

And  we  went  driving  on  through  tlie  cold,  starry  night. 

"Madness  fell  on  me  in  my  loneliness, 
The  sea  foamed  curses,  and  the  reeling  sky 
Became  a  dreadful  face  which  did  oppress 
Me  with  the  weight  of  its  unwinking  eye. 
It  fled,  when  I  burst  forth  into  a  cr>' — 
A  shoal  of  fiends  came  on  me  from  the  deep ; 

1  hid,  but  in  all  comers  they  did  pry, 

(J) 


And  dragged  me  forth,  and  round  did  dance  and  leap  ; 
They  mouthed  on  me  in  dream,  and  tore  me  from 
sweet  sleep. 

"Strange  constellations  burned  above  my  head, 
Strange  birds  around  the  vessel  shrieked  and  flew. 
Strange  shapes,  like  shadov.-s,  through  the  clear  sea  fled, 
As  our  lone  ship,  wide-winged,  came  rippling  through, 
Angering  to  foam  the  smooth  and  sleeping  blue." 
The  lady  sighed,  ' '  Far,  far  upon  the  sea. 
My  own  Sir  Arthur,  could  I  die  with  you  ! 
The  wind  blows  shrill  between  my  love  and  me." 
Fond  heart !  the  space  between  was  but  the  apple-tree. 

There  was  a  cry  of  joy  ;  with  seeking  hands 
She  fled  to  him,  like  worn  bird  to  her  nest ; 
Like  washing  water  on  the  figured  sands. 
His  being  came  and  went  in  sweet  unrest, 
As  from  the  mighty  shelter  of  his  breast 
The  Lady  Barbara  her  head  uprears 
With  a  wan  smile,  "Methinks  I'm  but  half  blest: 
Now  when  I've  found  thee,  after  weary  years, 
I  cannot  see  thee,  love  !  so  blind  I  am  with  tears." 

Alexander  S.mith. 

ATALANTA'S  RACE. 


(3 


ATALANTA  VICTORIOUS. 

ND  there  two  runners  did  the  sign  abide 
Foot  set  to  foot — a  young  man  slim  and  fair, 
Crisp-haired,  well  knit,  with  firm  limbs  oftiii 
tried 
In  places  where  no  man  his  strength  may  spare  ; 
Dainty  his  thin  coat  was,  and  on  his  hair 
A  golden  circlet  of  renown  he  wore, 
And  in  his  hand  an  olive  garland  bore. 

But  on  tills  day  with  whom  shall  he  contend  ? 
A  maid  stood  by  him  like  Diana  clad 
When  in  the  woods  she  lists  her  bow  to  bend. 
Too  fair  for  one  to  look  on  and  be  glad. 
Who  scarcely  yet  has  thirty  summers  had, 
If  he  must  still  behold  her  from  afar  ; 
Too  fair  to  let  the  v/orld  live  free  from  war. 

She  seemed  all  earthly  matters  to  forget ; 
Of  all  tormenting  lines  her  face  was  clear, 
Her  wide  gray  eyes  upon  the  goal  were  set, 
Calm  and  unmoved  as  though  no  soul  were  near : 
But  her  foe  trembled  as  a  man  in  fear, 
Nor  from  her  loveliness  one  moment  turned 
His  anxious  face  with  fierce  desire  that  burned. 

Now  through  the  hush  there  broke  the  trumpet's 
clang. 
Just  as  the  setting  sun  made  eventide. 
Then  from  light  feet  a  spurt  of  dust  there  sprang, 
And  swiftly  were  they  running  side  by  side ; 
But  silent  did  the  thronging  folk  abide 
Until  the  turning-post  was  reached  at  last. 
And  round  about  it  still  abreast  they  passed. 


98 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


But  when  the  people  saw  how  close  they  ran, 
When  half-way  to  tlie  starting-point  they  were, 
A  cry  of  joy  broke  forth,  whereat  the  man 
Headed  the  white-foot  runner,  and  drew  near 
Unto  the  very  end  of  all  his  fear ; 
And  scarce  his  straining  feet  the  ground  could  feel. 
And  bliss  unhoped  for  o'er  his  heart  did  steal. 

But  midst  the  loud  victorious  shouts  he  heard 
Her  footsteps  drawing  nearer,  and  the  sound 
Of  fluttering  raiment,  and  thereat  afeard 
His  flushed  and  eager  face  he  turned  around, 
And  even  then  he  felt  her  past  him  bound. 
Fleet  as  the  wind,  but  scarcely  saw  her  there 
Till  on  the  goal  she  laid  her  fingers  fair. 

There  stood  she  breathing  like  a  little  child 
Amid  some  warlike  clamor  laid  asleep. 
For  no  victorious  joy  her  red  lips  smiled, 
Her  cheek  its  wonted  freshness  did  but  keep ; 
No  glance  lit  up  her  clear  gray  eyes  and  deep. 
Though  some  divine  thought  softened  all  her  face 
As  once  more  rang  the  trumpet  through  the  place. 

But  her  late  foe  stopped  short  amidst  his  course, 
One  moment  gazed  upon  herpiteously, 
Then  with  a  groan  his  lingering  feet  did  force 
To  leave  the  spot  whence  he  her  eyes  could  see  ; 
And,  changed  like  one  who  knows  his  time  must  be 
But  short  and  bitter,  without  any  word 
He  knelt  before  the  bearer  of  the  sword  ; 

Then  high  rose  up  the  gleaming  deadly  blade. 
Bared  of  its  flowers,  and  through  the  crowded  place 
Was  silence  now,  and  midst  of  it  the  maid 
Went  by  the  poor  wretch  at  a  gentle  pace, 
And  he  to  hers  upturned  his  sad  white  face  ; 
Nor  did  his  eyes  behold  another  sight 
Ere  on  his  soul  there  fell  eternal  night. 

ATALANTA   CONQUERED. 

Now  has  the  lingering  month  at  last  gone  by, 
Again  are  all  folk  round  the  running  place, 
Nor  other  seems  t'le  dismal  pageantry 
Than  heretofore,  but  that  another  face 
Looks  o'er  the  smooth  course  ready  for  the  race ; 
For  now,  beheld  of  all,  Milanion 
Stands  on  the  spot  he  twice  has  looked  upon. 

But  yet — what  change  is  this  that  holds  the  maid  ? 
Does  she  indeed  see  in  his  glittering  eye 
Rlore  than  disdain  of  the  sharp  shearing  blade. 
Some  happy  hope  of  help  and  victory? 
The  others  seemed  to  say,  "We  come  to  die, 
Look  down  upon  us  for  a  little  while. 
That  dead,  we  may  bethink  us  of  thy  smile." 

But  he — what  look  of  mastery  was  this 
He  cast  on  her  ?  why  were  his  lips  so  red  ? 
Why  was  his  face  so  flushed  with  happiness? 
So  looks  not  one  who  deems  himself  but  dead, 


E'en  if  to  death  he  bows  a  willing  head  ; 
So  rather  looks  a  god  well  pleased  to  find 
Some  earthly  damsel  fashioned  to  his  mind. 

Why  must  she  drop  her  lids  before  his  gaze. 
And  even  as  she  casts  adown  her  eyes 
Redden  to  note  his  eager  glance  of  praise. 
And  wish  that  she  were  dad  in  other  guise? 
Why  must  the  memory  to  her  heart  arise 
Of  things  unnoticed  when  they  first  were  heard. 
Some  lover's  song,  some  answering  maiden's  word  ? 

What    makes    these    longings,   vague,   without  a 
name, 
And  this  vain  pity  never  felt  before, 
This  sudden  languor,  this  contempt  of  fame, 
This  tender  sorrow  for  the  time  past  o'er. 
These  doubts  that  grow  each  minute  more  and  more? 
Why  does  she  tremble  as  the  time  grows  near. 
And  weak  defeat  and  woful  victory  fear  ? 

But  while  she  seemed  to  hear  her  beating  heart. 
Above  their  heads  the  trumpet  blast  rang  out. 
And  forth  they  sprang  ;  and  she  must  play  her  part ; 
Then  flew  her  white  feet,  knowing  not  a  doubt. 
Though  slackening  once,  she  turned  her  head  about, 
But  then  she  cried  aloud  and  faster  fled 
Than  e'er  before,  and  all  men  deemed  him  dead. 

But  with  no  sound  he  raised  aloft  his  hand, 
And  thence  what  seemed  a  ray  of  light  there  flew 
And  past  the  maid  rolled  on  along  the  sand  ; 
Then  trembling  she  her  feet  together  drew. 
And  in  her  heart  a  strong  desire  there  grew 
To  have  the  toy  ;  some  god  she  thought  had  given 
That  gift  to  her,  to  make  of  earth  a  heaven. 

Then  from  the  course  with  eager  steps  she  ran. 
And  in  her  colorless  bosom  laid  the  gold. 
But  when  she  turned  again  the  great-limbed  man 
Now  well  ahead  she  failed  not  to  behold. 
And  mindful  of  her  glory  waxing  cold. 
Sprang  up  and  followed  him  in  hot  pursuit. 
Though  with  one  hand  she  touched  the  golden  fruit. 

Note,  too,  the  bow  that  she  was  wont  to  bear, 
She  laid  aside  to  grasp  the  glittering  prize. 
And  o'er  her  shoulder  from  the  quiver  fair. 
Three  arrows  fell  and  lay  before  her  eyes 
Unnoticed,  as  amidst  the  people's  cries 
She  sprang  to  head  the  strong  Milanion, 
Who  now  the  turning-post  had  well  nigh  won. 

Just  as  he  sets  his  mighty  hand  on  it. 
White  fingers  underneath  his  own  w^-te  laid. 
And  white  limbs  from  his  dazzled  eyes  did  flit. 
Then  he  the  second  fruit  cast  by  the  maid  ; 
But  she  ran  on  awhile,  then  as  afraid 
Wavered  and  stopped,  and  turned  and  made    no 

stay 
Until  the  globe  with  its  bright  fellow  lay. 


LOVE   AND   FRIENDSHIP. 


99 


Then,  as  a  troubled  glance  she  cast  around, 
Now  far  ahead  the  Argive  could  she  see, 
And  in  her  garment's  hem  one  hand  she  wound 
To  keep  the  double  prize,  and  strenuously 
Sped  o'er  the  course,  and  little  doubt  had  she 
To  win  the  day,  though  now  but  scanty  space 
Was  left  betwixt  him  and  the  winning  place. 

Short  was  the  way  unto  such  winged  feet, 
Quickly  she  gained  upon  him  till  at  last 
He  turned  about  her  eager  eyes  to  meet. 
And  from  his  hand  the  third  fair  apple  cast. 
She  wavered  not,  but  turned  and  ran  so  fast 
After  the  prize  that  should  her  bli.-s  fulfil. 
That  in  her  hand  it  lay  ere  it  was  still. 

Nor  did  she  rest,  but  turned  about  to  win 
Once  more,  an  unblest,  woful  victory — 
And  yet — and  yet — why  does  her  breath  begin 
To  fail  her,  and  her  feet  drag  heavily  ? 
Why  fails  she  now  to  see  if  far  or  nigh 
The  goal  is  ?  Why  do  her  gray  eyes  grow  dim  ? 
Why  do  these  tremors  run  through  every  limb  ? 

She  spreads  her  arms  abroad  some  stay  to  find, 
Else  must  she  fall,  indeed,  and  findeth  this, 
A  strong  man's  arms  about  her  body  twined. 
Nor  may  she  shudder  now  to  feel  his  kiss. 
So  wrapped  she  is  in  new,  unbroken  bliss  : 
Made  happy  that  the  foe  the  prize  hath  won. 
She  weeps  glad  tears  for  all  her  glory  done. 

William  Morris. 


PLACE  YOUR  HAND  IN  MINE.  WIFE. 

'IS  five-and-twenty  years  to-day. 
Since  we  were  man  and  wife — 
And  that's  a  tidy  slice,  I  say, 
^  From  anybody's  life. 

And  if  we  want,  in  looking  back. 

To  feel  how  time  has  flown. 
There's  Jack,  you  see,  our  baby  Jack, 
With  whiskers  of  his  own. 

Place  your  hand  in  mine,  wife — 
We've  loved  each  odier  true  ; 
And  still,  in  shade  or  shine,  wife, 
There's  love  to  help  us  through. 

It's  not  been  all  smooth  sailing,  wife — 

Not  always  laughing  May  ; 
Sometimes  it's  been  a  weary  strife 

To  keep  the  wolf  away. 
We've  haa  our  little  tiffs,  my  dear ; 

We've  often  grieved  and  sighed  ; 
One  lad  has  cost  us  many  a  tear  ; 

Our  little  baby  died. 

But,  wife,  your  love  along  the  road 
Has  cheered  the  roughest  spell ; 

You've  borne  your  half  of  every  load, 
And  often  mine  as  well. 


I've  rued  full  many  a  foolish  thing 

Ere  well  the  step  was  ta'en  ; 
But,  oh  !  I'd  haste  to  buy  the  ring 

And  wed  you  o'er  again. 

'Twas  you  who  made  me  own  the  Hand 

That's  working  all  along, 
In  ways  we  cannot  understand. 

Still  bringing  right  from  wrong. 
You've  kept  me  brave,  and  kept  me  true  ; 

You've  made  me  trust  and  pray  ; 
My  gentle  evening  star  were  you. 
That  blessed  the  close  of  day. 

Place  your  hand  in  mine,  wife — 
We've  loved  each  other  true  ; 
And  still,  in  shade  or  shine,  wife. 
There's  love  to  help  us  through. 

Frederick  Langbridge. 


m 


THE  LITTLE  MILLINER. 

y  girl  hath  violet  eyes  and  yellow  hair, 
A  soft  hand,  like  a  lady's,  small  and  fair, 
A  sweet  face  pouting  in  a  white  straw  bon- 
net, 
A  tiny  foot,  and  little  boot  upon  it ; 
And  all  her  finery  to  charm  beholders 
Is  the  gray  shawl  drawn  tight  around  her  shoulders. 
The  plain  stuff-gown  and  collar  white  as  snow, 
And  sweet  red  petticoat  that  peeps  below. 
But  gladly  in  the  busy  town  goes  she. 
Summer  and  winter,  fearing  nobody; 
She  pats  the  pavement  with  her  fairy  feet. 
With  fearless  eyes  she  charms  the  crowded  street ; 
And  in  her  pocket  lie,  in  lieu  of  gold, 
A  lucky  sixpence  and  a  thimble  old. 

We  lodged  in  the  same  house  a  year  ago  : 
She  on  the  topmost  floor,  I  just  below — 
She,  a  poor  milliner,  content  and  wise, 
I,  a  poor  city  clerk,  with  hopes  to  rise  ; 
And,  long  ere  we  were  friends,  I  learnt  to  love 
The  little  angel  on  the  floor  above. 
For,  every  morn,  ere  from  my  bed  I  stirred, 
Her  chamber  door  would  open,  and  I  heard — 
And  listening,  blushing,  to  her  coming  down, 
And  palpitated  with  her  rustling  gown. 
And  tingled  while  her  foot  went  downward  slow. 
Creaked  like  a  cricket,  passed,  and  died  below  ; 
Then  peeping  from  the  window,  pleased  and  sly, 
I  saw  the  pretty  shining  face  go  by. 
Healthy  and  rosy,  fresh  from  slumber  sweet — 
A  sunbeam  in  the  quiet  morning  street. 

And  every  night  when  in  from  work  she  tript, 
Red  to  the  ears  I  from  my  chamber  slipt, 
That  I  might  hear  upon  the  narrow  stair 
Her  low  "  Good  evening,"  as  she  passed  me  there. 
And  when  her  door  was  closed,  below  sat  I, 
And  hearkened  stilly  as  she  stirred  on  high — 


100 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


Watched  the  red  firelight  shadows  in  the  room, 

Fashioned  her  face  before  me  in  the  gloom, 

And  heard  her  close  the  window,  lock  the  door. 

Moving  about  more  lightly  than  before, 

And  thought,  "  She  is  undressing  now  !"  and,  oh  ! 

My  clieeks  were  hot,  my  heart  was  in  a  glow  ! 

And  I  made  pictures  of  her — standing  bright 

Before  the  looking-glass  in  bed-gown  white, 

Unbinding  in  a  knot  her  yellow  hair. 

Then  kneeling  timidly  to  say  a  prayer  ; 

Till,  last,  the  floor  creaked  softly  overhead, 

'Neath  bare  feet  tripping  to  the  little  bed — 

And  all  was  hushed.    Yet  still  I  hearkened  on, 

Till  the  faint  sounds  about  the  streets  were  gone  ; 

And  saw  her  slumbering  with  lips  apart, 

One  little  hand  upon  her  little  heart. 

The  other  pillowing  a  face  that  smiled 

In  slumber  like  the  slumber  of  a  child, 

The  bright  hair  shining  round  the  small  white  ear, 

The  soft  breath  stealing  visible  and  clear, 

And  mixing  with  the  moon's,  whose  frosty  gleam 

Made  round  her  rest  a  vaporous  light  of  dream. 

How  free  she  wandered  in  the  wicked  place, 
Protected  only  by  her  gentle  face  ! 
She  saw  bad  things — how  could  she  choose  but  see  ? — 
She  heard  of  wantonness  and  misery  ; 
The  city  closed  around  her  night  and  day, 
But  lightly,  happily,  she  went  her  way. 
Nothing  of  evil  that  she  saw  or  heard 
Could  touch  a  h^art  so  innocently  stirred — 
By  simple  hopes  that  cheered  it  through  the  storm. 
And  little  flutterings  that  kept  it  warm. 
No  power  had  she  to  reason  out  her  needs, 
To  give  the  whence  and  wherefore  of  her  deeds ; 
But  she  was  good  and  pure  amid  the  strife 
By  virtue  of  the  joy  that  was  her  life. 
Here,  where  a  thousand  spirits  daily  fall, 
Where  heart  and  soul  and  senses  turn  to  gall," 
She  floated,  pure  as  innocent  could  be, 
Like  a  small  sea-bird  on  a  stormy  sea, 
Which  breasts  the  billows,  wafted  to  and  fro, 
Fearless,  uninjured,  while  the  strong  winds  blow. 
While  the  clouds  gather,  and  the  waters  roar. 
And  mighty  ships  are  broken  on  the  shore. 
A'l  winter  long,  witless  who  peeped  the  while. 
She  sweetened  the  chill  mornings  with  her  smile  ; 
When  the  soft  snow  was  falling  dimly  white. 
Shining  among  it  with  a  child's  delight, 
Bri^^ht  as  a  rose,  though  nipping  winds  might  blow, 
And  leaving  fairy  footprints  in  the  snow  ! 

'Twas  when  the  spring  was  coming,  when  the  snow 
Had  melted,  and  fresh  winds  began  to  blow, 
And  girls  were  selling  violets  in  the  town, 
That  suddenly  a  fever  struck  me  down. 
The  world  was  changed,  the  sense  of  life  was  pained, 
And  nothing  but  a  shadow-land  remained  ; 
Death  came  in  a  dark  mist  and  looked  at  me, 
I  felt  his  breathing,  though  I  could  not  see, 


But  heavily  I  lay  and  did  not  stir, 

And  had  strange  images  and  dreams  of  her. 

Then  came  a  vacancy  ;  with  feeble  breath, 

I  shivered  under  the  cold  touch  of  death, 

And  swooned  among  strange  visions  of  the  dead. 

When  a  voice  called  from  heaven,  and  he  fled  ; 

And  suddenly  I  wakened,  as  it  seemed, 

From  a  deep  sleep  wherein  I  had  not  dreamed. 

And  it  was  night,  and  I  could  see  and  hear, 
And  I  was  in  the  room  I  held  so  dear. 
And  unaware,  stretched  out  upon  my  bed. 
I  hearkened  for  a  footstep  overhead. 

But  all  was  hushed.    I  looked  around  the  room, 
And  slowly  made  out  shapes  amid  the  gloom. 
The  wall  was  reddened  by  a  rosy  light, 
A  faint  fire  flickered,  and  I  knew  't  was  night, 
Because  below  there  was  a  sound  of  feet 
Dying  away  along  the  quiet  street — 
When,  turning  my  pale  face  and  sighing  low, 
I  saw  a  vision  in  the  quiet  glow  : 
A  little  figure  in  a  cotton  gown, 
Looking  upon  the  fire  and  stooping  down, 
Her  side  to  me,  her  face  illumed,  she  eyed 
Two  chestnuts  burning  slowly,  side  by  side — 
Her  lips  apart,  her  clear  eyes  strained  to  see. 
Her  little  hands  clasped  tight  around  her  knee, 
The  firelight  gleaming  on  her  golden  head. 
And  tinting  her  white  neck  to  rosy  red. 
Her  features  bright,  and  beautiful,  and  pure. 
With  childish  fear  and  yearning  half  demure. 

O  sweet,  sweet  dream  I  I  thought  and  strained  mine 

eyes, 
Fearing  to  break  the  spell  with  words  and  sighs. 

Softly  she  stooped,  her  dear  face  sweetly  fair. 
And  sweeter  since  a  light  like  love  was  there, 
Brightening,  watching,  more  and  more  elate, 
As  the  nuts  glowed  together  in  the  grate.' 
Crackling  with  little  jets  of  fiery  light. 
Till  side  by  side  they  turned  to  ashes  white — 
Then  up  she  leapt,  her  face  cast  oflfits  fear 
For  rapture  that  itself  was  radiance  clear, 
And  would  have  clapped  her  little  han'ds  in  glee,  . 
But,  pausing,  bit  her  lips  and  peeped  at  mc, 
And  met  the  face  that  yearned  on  her  so.  whitcly. 
And  gave  a  cry  and  trembled,  blushing  brightly, 
While,  raised  on  elbow,  as  she  turned  to  flee, 
"  Polly  !"  I  cried— and  grew  as  red  as  she  1 

It  was  no  dream!   for  soon    my  ".thoughts  were 
clear. 
And  she  could  tell  me  all,  and  I  could  hear : 
How  in  my  sickness  friendless  I  had  lainj 
How  the  hard  people  pitied  not  my  pain  ; 
How,  in  despite  of  what  bad  people  said. 
She  left  her  labors,  stopped  beside  my  bed, 
And  nursed  me,  thinking  sadly  I  would  die; 
How,  in  the  end,  the  danger  passed  me  by ; 


LOVE  AND   FRIENDSHIP. 


101 


How  she  had  sought  to  steal  away  before 

The  sickness  passed,  and  I  was  strong  once  more. 

By  fits  she  told  the  story  in  mine  ear, 

And  troubled  at  the  telling  with  a  fear 

Lest  by  my  cold  man's  heart  she  should  be  chid. 

Lest  I  should  think  her  bold  in  what  she  did ; 

But,  lying  on  my  bed,  I  dared  to  say. 

How  I  had  watched  and  loved  her  many  a  day. 

How  dear  she  was  to  me,  and  dearer  still 

For  that  strange  kindness  done  while  I  was  ill. 

And  how  I  could  but  think  that  Heaven  above 

Had  done  it  all  to  bind  our  lives  in  love. 

And  Polly  cried,  turning  her  face  away, 

And  seemed  afraid,  and  answered  "yea  "nor"  nay;' 

Then  stealing  close,  with  little  pants  and  sighs, 

Looked  on  my  pale  thin  face  and  earnest  eyes. 

And  seemed  in  act  to  fling  her  arms  about 

My  neck;  then,  blushing,  paused,  in  fluttering  doubt ; 

Last,  sprang  upon  my  heart,  sighing  and  sobbing — 

That  I  might  feel  how  gladly  hers  was  throbbing. 

Ah  !  ne'er  shall  I  forget  until  I  die, 
How  happily  the  dreamy  days  went  by. 
While  I  grew  well,  and  lay  with  soft  heart-beats. 
Hearkening  the  pleasant  murmur  from  the  streets. 
And  Polly  by  me  like  a  sunny  beam. 
And  life  all  changed,  and  love  a  drosy  dream ! 
'Twas  happiness  enough  to  lie  and  see 
The  little  golden  head  bent  droopingly 
Over  its  sewing,  while  the  still  time  flew, 
And  my  fond  eyes  were  dim  with  happy  dew ! 
And  then,  when  I  was  nearly  well  and  strong. 
And  she  went  back  to  labor  all  day  long, 
How  sweet  to  lie  alone  with  half-shut  eyes. 
And  hear  the  distant  murmurs  and  the  cries, 
And  think  how  pure  she  was  from  pain  and  sin — 
And  how  the  summer  days  were  coming  in  ! 
Then,  as  the  sunset  faded  from  the  room. 
To  listen  for  her  footstep  in  the  gloom. 
To  pant  as  it  came  stealing  up  the  stair. 
To  feel  my  whole  life  brighten  unaware 
When  the  soft  tap  came  to  the  door,  and  when 
The  door  was  open  for  her  smile  again  ! 
Best,  the  long  evenings ! — when,  till  late  at  night. 
She  sat  beside  me  in  the  quiet  light. 
And  happy  things  were  said  and  kisses  won, 
And  serious  gladness  found  its  vent  in  fun. 
Sometimes  I  would  draw  close  her  shining  head. 
And  pour  her  bright  hair  out  upon  the  bed. 
And  she  would  laugh,  and  blush,  and  trj'  to  scold. 
While  "here,"  I  cried,  "  I  count  my  wealth  in  gold  !" 

Once,  like  a  little  sinner  for  transgression, 
She  blushed  upon  my  breast,  and  made  confession : 
How,  when  that  night  I  woke  and  looked  around, 
I  found  her  busy  with  a  charm  profound — 
One  chestriut  was  herself,  my  girl  confessed. 
The  other  was  the  person  she  loved  best. 
And  if  they  burned  together  side  by  side. 
He  loved  her,  and  she  would  become  his  bride ; 


And  bum  indeed  they  did,  to  her  delight — 
And  had  the  pretty  charm  not  proven  right? 
Thus  much,  and  more,  with  timorous  joy,  she  said. 
While  her  confjssor,  too,  grew  rosy  red  — 
And  close  togetlicr  pressed  two  blissful  faces. 
As  I  absolved  tJio  sinner,  with  embraces. 

And  here  is  winter  come  again,  winds  blow. 
The  houses  and  the  streets  are  white  with  snow  ; 
And  in  the  long  and  pleasant  eventide, 
Why,  what  is  Polly  making  at  my  side  ? 
What  but  a  silk  gown,  beautiful  and  grand. 
We  bought  together  lately  in  the  Strand  ! 
What  but  a  dress  to  go  to  ciiurch  in  soon, 
And  wear  right  queenly  'neath  a  honeymoon  ! 
And  who  shall  match  her  with  her  new  straw  bonnet, 
Her  tiny  foot  and  little  boot  upon  it ; 
Embroidered  petticoat  and  silk  gown  new, 
And  shawl  she  wears  as  f^w  fine  ladies  do? 
And  she  will  keep,  to  charm  away  all  ill. 
The  lucky  sixpence  in  her  pocket  still ; 
And  we  will  turn,  come  fi^ir  or  cloudy  weather, 
To  ashes,  like  the  chestnuts,  close  together ! 

Robert  Buchanan. 


#: 


THE  EXCHANGE. 

pledged  our  hearts,  my  love  and  I — 
I  in  my  arms  the  maiden  clasping ; 
could  not  tell  the  reason  why. 
But,  O,  I  trembled  like  an  aspen  ! 

Her  father's  love  she  bade  me  gain  ; 

I  went,  and  shook  like  any  reed  ! 
I  strove  to  act  the  man — in  vain  ! 

We  had  exchanged  our  hearts  indeed. 
Samuel  Tavlor  Coleridge. 


THE  MILLER'S  DAUGHTER. 

'T  T  is  the  miller's  daughter, 
•©•         And  she  is  grown  so  dear,  so  dear, 
•!»     That  I  would  be  the  jewel 
'  That  trembles  at  her  ear : 

For,  hid  in  ringlets  day  and  night, 

I'd  touch  her  neck  so  wann  and  white. 

And  I  would  be  the  girdle 
About  her  dainty,  dainty  waist. 

And  her  heart  would  beat  against  me 
In  sorrow  and  in  rest : 

And  I  should  know  if  it  beat  right, 

I'd  clasp  it  round  so  close  and  tight. 

And  I  would  be  the  necklace, 
And  all  day  long  to  fall  and  rise 

Upon  her  balmy  bosom. 
With  her  laughter  or  her  sighs : 

And  I  would  lie  so  light,  so  light, 

I  scarce  should  be  unclasped  at  night. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


i02 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


• 


THE  LOVE-KNOT. 

'YING  her  bonnet  under  her  chin. 
She  tied  her  raven  ringlets  in. 
But  not  alone  in  the  silken  snare 
Did  she  catch  her  lovely  floating  hair, 
For,  tying  her  bonnet  under  her  chin. 
She  tied  a  young  man's  heart  within. 

They  were  strolling  together  up  the  hill. 
Where  the  wind  came  blowing  merry  and  chill; 
And  it  blew  the  curls  a  frolicsome  race, 
All  over  the  happy  peach-colored  face. 
Till  scolding  and  laughing,  she  tied  tliem  in. 
Under  her  beautiful,  dimpled  chin. 

And  it  blew  a  color,  bright  as  the  bloom 
Of  the  pinkest  fuchsia's  tossing  plume. 
All  over  the  cheeks  of  the  prettiest  girl 
That  ever  imprisoned  a  romping  curl, 
Or,  in  tying  her  bonnet  under  her  chin. 
Tied  a  young  man's  heart  within. 

Steeper  and  steeper  grew  the  hill. 
Madder,  merrier,  chiller  still, 
The  western  wind  blew  down,  and  played 
The  wildest  tricks  with  the  little  maid. 
As,  tying  her  bonnet  under  her  chin, 
She  tied  a  young  man's  heart  within. 

O  western  wind,  do  you  think  it  was  fair 

To  play  such  tricks  with  her  floating  hair? 

To  gladly,  gleefully,  do  your  best 

To  blow  her  against  the  young  man's  breast, 

Where  he  has  gladly  folded  her  in. 

And  kissed  her  mouth  and  dimpled  chin  ? 

O  Ellery  Vane,  you  little  thought. 
An  hour  ago,  when  you  besought 
This  country  lass  to  walk  with  you. 
After  the  sun  had  dried  the  dew. 
What  terrible  danger  you'd  be  in. 
As  she  tied  her  bonnet  under  her  chin. 

Nora  Perry. 


A  SPINSTER'S  STINT. 

'  IX  skeins  and  three,  six  skeins  and  three  ! 
Good  mother,  so  you  stinted  me. 
And  here  they  be — ay,  six  and  three  ! 

Stop,  busy  wheel !  stop,  noisy  wheel ! 
Long  shadows  down  my  chamber  steal. 
And  warn  me  to  make  haste  and  reel. 

'T  is  done — the  spinning  work  complete, 

0  heart  of  mine,  what  makes  you  beat 
So  fast  and  sweet,  so  fast  and  sweet  ? 

1  must  have  wheat  and  pinks,  to  stick 
My  hat  from  brim  to  ribbon,  thick — 
Slow  hands  of  mine,  be  quick,  be  quick  ! 


One,  two,  three  stars  along  t!«*^  wfc.it:S 
Begin  to  wink  their  golden  ey-.6 — 
I'll  leave  my  threads  all  knots  and  ties. 

O  moon,  so  red  !  O  moon,  so  red  ! 
Sweetheart  of  night,  go  straight  to  bed  ; 
Love's  light  will  answer  in  your  stead. 

A-tiptoe,  beckoning  me,  he  stands — 
Stop  trembling,  littie  foolish  hands. 
And  stop  the  bands,  and  stop  the  bands  ? 

Alice  Carv. 

0,  DO  NOT  WANTON  WITH  THOSE  EYES 


DO  not  wanton  with  tliose  eyes. 
Lest  I  be  sick  with  seeing  ; 
y     Nor  cast  them  down,  but  let  them  rise. 
Lest  shame  destroy  their  being. 

O,  be  not  angry  with  those  fires, 
For  then  their  threats  will  kill  me  ; 

Nor  look  too  kind  on  my  desires. 
For  then  my  hopes  will  spill  me. 

O,  do  not  steep  them  in  thy  tears, 
.  For  so  will  sorrow  slay  me ; 
Nor  spread  them  as  distract  with  fears  ; 
Mine  own  enough  betray  me. 

Ben  Jonson. 

A  NYMPH'S  REPLY. 


F  all  the  world  and  love  were  young. 
And  truth  in  every  shepherd's  tongue, 
These  pretty  pleasures  might  me  move 
To  live  with  thee,  and  be  thy  love. 

Time  drives  the  flocks  from  field  to  fold. 
When  rivers  rage  and  rocks  grow  cold  ; 
And  Philornel  becometh  dumb, 
The  rest  complain  of  cares  to  come. 

The  flowers  do  fade,  and  wanton  fields 
To  wayward  winter  reckoning  yields  ; 
A  honey  tongue,  a  heart  of  gall, 
Is  fancy's  spring,  but  sorrows  fall. 

Thy  gowns,  thy  shoes,  thy  beds  of  roses. 

Thy  cap,  thy  kirtle,  and  thy  posies. 
Soon  break,  soon  wither,  soon  forgotten. 
In  folly  ripe,  in  reason  rotten. 

Thy  belt  of  straw  and  ivy  buds, 
Thy  coral  clasps  and  amber  studs  ; 
All  these  in  me  no  means  can  move 
To  come  to  thee  and  be  thy  love. 

But  could  youth  last,  and  love  still  breed. 
Had  joys  no  date,  nor  age  no  need, 
Then  these  delights  my  mind  might  move 
To  live  with  thee  and  be  thy  love. 

Sir  Walter  Raleigh. 


LOVE  AND   FRIENDSHIP. 


103 


ii 


BLEST  AS  THE  IMMORTAL  GODS. 

I  LEST  as  the  immortal  gods  is  he, 
The  youth  who  fondly  sits  by  thee, 
And  hears  and  sees  thee  all  the  while 
Softly  speak,  and  sweetly  smile. 

'T  was  this  deprived  my  soul  of  rest, 
And  raised  such  tumults  in  my  breast : 
For  while  I  gazed,  in  transport  tost, 
My  breath  was  gone,  my  voice  was  lost. 

My  bosom  glowed  ;  the  subtle  flame 
Ran  quick  through  all  my  vital  frame  ; 
O'er  my  dim  eyes  a  darkness  hung  ; 
My  ears  with  hollow  murmurs  rung ; 

In  dewy  damps  my  limbs  were  chilled ; 
My  blood  with  gentle  horrors  thrilled  : 
My  feeble  pulse  forgot  to  play — 
I  fainted,  sunk,  and  died  away. 

From  the  Greek  of  Sappho, 
by  Ambrose  Phillips. 

THE  WHISTLE. 

OU  have  heard,"  said  a  youth  to  his  sweet- 
heart, who  stood. 
While  he  sat  on  a  corn-sheaf,  at  day- 
light's decline — 
"  You  have  heard  of  the  Danish  boy's  whistle   of 
wood  ? 
I  wish  that  the  Danish  boy's  whistle  were  mine." 

"And  what  would  you  do  with  it? — tell  me,"  she 
said. 
While  an  arch  smile  played  over  her  beautiful  face. 
"I  would  blow  it,"  he  answered  ;  "and  then  my  fair 
maid 
Would  fly  to  my  side,  and  would  here  take  her 
place." 

"  Is  that  all  you  wish  it  for  ?    That  may  be  yours 
Without  any  magic,"  the  fair  maiden  cried  : 

"A  favor  so  slight  one's  good  nature  secures  ;" 
And  she  playfully  seated  herself  by  his  side. 

"I  would  blow  it  again,"  said  the  youth,  "and  the 
charm 
Would  work  so,  that  not  even  modesty's  check 
Would   be  able  to  keep  from  my  neck  your  fine 
arm  ;" 
She  smiled — and  she  laid  her  fine  arm  round  his 
neck. 

"  Yet  once  more  would  I  blow,  and  the  music  divine 
Would  bring  me  the  third  time  an  exquisite  bliss  ; 
You  would  lay  your  fair  cheek  to  this  brown  one  of 
mine. 
And  your  lips,  stealing  past  it,  would  give  me  a 
kiss." 


The  maiden  laughed  out  in  her  innocent  glee, 

"  What  a  fool  of  yourself  with  your  whistle  you'd 
make  ! 
For  only  consider,  how  silly  't  would  be 
To  sit    there    and   whistle   for — what   you    m'vgbi. 
take !" 

Robert  Story. 


A  MAIDEN  WITH  A  MILKING-PAIL 


lU 


HAT  change  has  made  the  pastures  sweet 
And  reached  the  daisies  at  my  feet, 

And  cloud  that  wears  a  golden  hem  ? 
This  lovely  world,  the  hills,  the  sward — 
They  all  look  fresh,  as  if  our  Lord 
But  yesterday  had  finished  them. 

And  here's  the  field  with  light  aglow : 
How  fresh  its  boundary  lime-trees  show  ! 

And  how  its  wet  leaves  trembling  shine  ! 
Between  their  trunks  come  through  to  me 
The  morning  sparkles  of  the  sea. 

Below  the  level  browsing  line. 

I  see  the  pool  more  clear  by  half 
Than  pools  where  other  waters  laugh, 

Up  at  the  breasts  of  coot  and  rail. 
There,  as  she  passed  it  on  her  way, 
I  saw  reflected  yesterday 

A  maiden  with  a  milking-pail. 

There,  neither  slowly  nor  in  haste, 
One  hand  upon  her  slender  waist, 

The  other  lifted  to  her  pail — 
She,  rosy  in  the  morning  light. 
Among  the  water-daisies  white, 

Like  some  fair  sloop  appeared  to  sail. 

Against  her  ankles  as  she  trod 
The  lucky  buttercups  did  nod : 

I  leaned  upon  the  gate  to  see. 
The  sweet  thing  looked,  but  did  not  sp>eak ; 
A  dimple  came  in  either  cheek, 

And  all  my  heart  was  gone  from  me. 

Then,  as  I  lingered  on  the  gate. 
And  she  came  up  like  coming  fate, 

I  saw  my  picture  in  her  eyes — 
Clear  dancing  eyes,  more  black  than  sloes  ! 
Cheeks  like  the  mountain  pink,  that  grows 

Among  white-headed  majesties ! 

I  said,  "  A  tale  was  made  of  old 
That  I  would  fain  to  thee  unfold. 

Ah  !  let  me — let  me  tell  the  tale." 
But  high  she  held  her  comely  head  : 
I  cannot  heed  it  now,"  she  said, 

"For  carrying  of  the  milking-pail." 

She  laughed.     What  good  to  make  ado  ? 
I  held  the  gate,  and  she  came  through, 
And  took  her  homeward  path  anon. 


1©4 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


From  the  clear  pool  her  face  had  fled  ; 
It  rested  on  my  heart  instead, 
Reflected  when  the  maid  was  gone. 

With  happy  youth,  and  work  content, 
So  sweet  and  stately,  on  she  went, 

Right  careless  of  the  untold  tale. 
Each  step  she  took  I  loved  her  more. 
And  followed  to  her  dairy  door 

The  maiden  with  the  milking-pail. 
II. 
For  hearts  where  wakened  love  doth  lurk, 
How  fine,  how  blest  a  thing  is  work  ! 

For  work  does  good  when  reasons  fail — 
Good  ;  yet  the  axe  at  every  stroke 
The  echo  of  a  name  awoke — 

Her  name  is  Mary  Martindale. 

I'm  glad  that  echo  was  not  heard 
Aright  by  other  men.    A  bird 

Knows  doubtless  what  his  own  notes  tell ; 
And  I  know  not — but  I  can  say 
I  felt  as  shamefaced  all  that  day 

As  if  folks  heard  her  name  right  well. 

And  when  the  west  began  to  glow 
I  went  —I  could  not  choose  but  go — 

To  that  same  dairy  on  the  hill ; 
And  while  sweet  Mary  moved  about 
Within,  I  came  to  her  without. 

And  leaned  upon  the  window-sili. 

The  garden  border  where  I  stood 

Was  sweet  with  pinks  and  southernwood. 

I  spoke — her  answer  seemed  to  fail. 
I  smelt  the  pinks — I  could  not  see. 
The  dusk  came  down  and  sheltered  me, 

And  in  the  dusk  she  heard  my  tale. 

And  what  is  left  that  I  should  tell  ? 
I  begged  a  kiss — I  pleaded  well : 

The  rosebud  lips  did  long  decline  ; 
But  yet,  I  think— I  think  't  is  true- 
That,  leaned  at  last  into  the  dew. 

One  little  instant  they  were  mine  ! 

O  life  !  how  dear  thou  hast  become  ! 
She  laughed  at  dawn,  and  I  was  dumb  ! 

But  evening  counsels  best  prevail. 
Fair  shine  the  blue  that  o'er  her  spreads, 
Green  be  the  pastures  where  she  treads, 

The  maiden  with  the  milking-pail ! 

Jean  Ingelow. 


THE  EVE  OF  ST.  AGNES. 


'  T.  AGNES'  EVE— ah,  bitter  chill  it  was  ! 
The  owl,  for  all  his  feathers,  was  a-cold  ; 
The  hare  limped  trembling  through  the  frozen 
grass. 

And  silent  was  the  flock  in  woolly  fold : 
Numb  were  the  beadsman's  fingers  while  he  told 


His  rosary,  and  while  his  frosted  breath, 
Like  pious  incense  from  a  censer  old. 
Seemed  taking  flight  for  heaven  without  a  death, 
Past  the  sweet  virgin's  picture,  while  his  prayer  he 
saith. 

His  prayer  he  saith,  this  patient,  holy  man  ; 

Then  takes  his  lamp,  and  riseth  from  his  knees, 

And  back  returneth,  meagre,  barefoot,  wan, 

Along  the  chapel  isle  by  slow  degrees  ; 

The  sculptured  dead  on  each  side  seemed  to  freeze, 

Emprisoned  in  black,  purgatorial  rails  ; 

Knights,  ladies,  praying  in  dumb  orat'ries, 

He  passeth  by  ;  and  his  weak  spirit  fails 

To  think  how  they  may  ache  in  icy  hoods  and  mails. 

Northward  he  turneth  through  a  little  door, 

And  scarce  three  steps,  ere  music's  golden  tongue 

Flattered  to  tears  this  aged  man  and  poor  ; 

But  no — already  had  his  death-bell  rung  ; 

The  joys  of  all  his  life  were  said  and  sung: 

His  was  harsh  penance  on  St.  Agnes'  Eve  : 

Another  way  he  went,  and  soon  among 

Rough  ashes  sat  he  for  his  soul's  reprieve, 

And  all  night  kept  awake,  for  sinners'  sake  to  grieve. 

That  ancient  beadsman  heard  the  prelude  soft ; 
And  so  it  chanced,  for  many  a  door  was  wide, 
From  hurry  to  and  fro.     Soon,  up  aloft, 
The  silver,  snarling  trumpets  'gan  to  chide  ; 
The  level  chambers,  ready  with  their  pride, 
Were  glowing  to  receive  a  thousand  guests  : 
The  carved  angels,  ever  eager  eyed, 
Stared,  where  upon  their  heads  the  cornice  rests, 
With  hair  blown  back,  and  wings  put  crosswise  on 
their  breasts. 

At  length  burst  in  the  argent  revelry, 

With  plume,  tiara,  and  all  rich  array, 

Numerous  as  shadows  haunting  fairily 

The  brain,  new-stuffed,  in  youth,  with  triumphs  gay 

Of  old  romance.     These  let  us  wish  away  ; 

And  turn,  sole-thoughted,  to  one  lady  there, 

Whose  heart  had  brooded,  all  that  wintry  day, 

On  love,  and  winged  St.  Agnes'  saintly  care. 

As  she  had  heard  old  dames  full  many  times  declare. 

They  told  her  how,  upon  St.  Agnes'  eve. 

Young  virgins  might  have  visions  of  delight, 

And  soft  adorings  from  their  loves  receive 

Upon  the  honeyed  middle  of  the  night, 

If  ceremonies  due  they  did  aright ; 

As,  supperless  to  bed  they  must  retire. 

And  couch  supine  their  beauties,  lily  white; 

Nor  look  behind,  nor  sideways,  but  require 

Of  heaven  with  upward  eyes  for  all  that  they  desire. 


Full  of  this  whim  was  thoughtful  Madeline  ; 
The  music,  yearning  like  a  god  in  pain, 
She  scarcely  heard  ;  her  maiden  eyes  divine. 
Fixed  on  the  floor,  saw  many  a  sweeping  train 


LOVE  AND   FRIENDSHIP. 


105 


Pass  by — she  heeded  not  at  all ;  in  vain 
Came  many  a  tiptoe,  amorous  cavalier, 
And  back  relired,  not  cooled  by  high  disdain. 
But  she  saw  not ;  her  heart  was  otherwhere  ; 
She  sighed  for  Agnes'  dreams,  the  sweetest  of  the 
year. 

She  danced  along  with  vague,  regardless  eyes, 
Anxious  her  lips,  her  breathing  quick  and  short ; 
The  hallowed  hour  was  near  at  hand  ;  she  sighs 
Amid  the  timbrels,  and  the  thronged  resort 
Of  whisperers  in  anger,  or  in  sport ; 
Mid  looks  of  love,  defiance,  hate,  and  scorn. 
Hoodwinked  with  fairy  fancy;  all  amort 
Save  to  St.  Agnes  and  her  lambs  unshorn. 
And  all  the  bliss  to  be  before  to-morrow  morn. 

So,  purposing  each  moment  to  retire, 
She  lingered  still.     Meantime,  across  the  moors, 
Had  come  young  Porphyro,  with  heart  on  fire 
For  Madeline.     Beside  the  portal  doors, 
Buttressed  from  moonlight,  stands  he,  and  implores 
All  saints  to  give  him  sight  of  Madeline, 
But  for  one  moment  in  the  tedious  hours, 
That  he  might  gaze  and  worship  all  unseen  ; 
Perchance  speak,  kneel,  touch,   kiss — in  sooth  such 
things  have  been. 

He  ventures  in  :  let  no  buzzed  whisper  tell : 
All  eyes  be  mufiied,  or  a  hundred  swords 
Will  storm  his  heart,  love's  feverous  citadel ; 
For  him,  those  chambers  held  barbarian  hordes, 
Hyena  foemen,  and  hot-blooded  lords. 
Whose  very  dogs  would  execrations  howl 
Against  his  lineage  ;  not  one  breast  aflfords 
Him  any  mercy,  in  that  mansion  foul. 
Save  one  old  beldame,  weak  in  body  and  in  soul. 

Ah,  happy  chance  !  the  aged  creature  came. 

Shuffling  along  with  ivory-headed  wand. 

To  where  he  stood,  hid  from  the  torch's  flame. 

Behind  a  broad  hall-pillar,  far  beyond 

The  sound  of  merriment  and  chorus  bland. 

He  startled  her ;  but  soon  she  knew  his  face, 

And  grasped  his  fingers  in  her  palsied  hand. 

Saying,  "  Mercy,  Porphyro  !  hie  thee  from  this  place  ; 

They  are  all  here  to-night,  the  whole  bloodthirsty  race ! 

"  Get  hence !  get  hence  !  there's  dwarfish  Hildebrand ; 

He  had  a  fever  late,  and  in  the  fit 

He  cursM  thee  and  thine,  both  house  and  land  ; 

Then  there's  that  old  Lord  Maurice,  not  a  whit 

More  tame  for  his  gray  hairs — alas  me  !  flit ! 

Flit  like  a  ghost  away  ! "     "Ah,  gossip  dear. 

We're  safe  enough ;  here  in  this  arm-chair  sit. 

And  tell  me  how — "     "Good  saints!  not  here,  not 

here ; 
Follow  me,  child,  or  else  these  stones  will  be  thy  bier," 

He  followed  through  a  lowly  arched  way, 
Brushing  the  cobwebs  with  his  lofty  plume  ; 
And  as  she  muttered,  "  Well-a — well-aday ! " 


He  found  him  in  a  little  moonlight  room, 

Pale,  latticed,  chill,  and  silent  as  a  tomb. 

"  Now  tell  me  where  is  Madeline,"  said  he, 

"  O,  tell  me,  Angela,  by  the  holy  loom 

Which  none  but  secret  sisterhood  may  see. 

When  they  St.  Agnes'  wool  are  weaving  piously." 

"St.  Agnes !  Ah  !  it  is  St.  Agnes'  Eve- 
Yet  men  will  murder  upon  holy  days ; 
Thou  must  hold  water  in  a  witch's  sieve, 
And  be  liege-lord  of  all  the  elves  and  fays. 
To  venture  so.     It  fills  me  with  amaze 
To  see  thee,  Porphyro ! — St.  Agnes  eve  ! 
God's  help  !  my  lady  fair  the  conjurer  plays 
This  vel^'  night ;  good  angels  her  deceive  ! 
But  let  me  laugh  awhile,  Pve  mickle  time  to  grieve." 

Feebly  she  laugheth  in  the  languid  moon, 

While  Porphyro  upon  her  face  doth  look. 

Like  puzzled  urchin  on  an  aged  crone 

Who  keepeth  closed  a  wondrous  riddle-book, 

As  spectacled  she  sits  in  chimney  nook. 

But  soon  his  eyes  grew  brilliant,  when  she  told 

His  lady's  purpose  ;  and  he  scarce  could  brook 

Tears,  at  tlie  thought  of  those  enchantments  cold. 

And  Madeline  asleep  in  lap  of  legends  old. 

Sudden  a  thought  came  like  a  full-blown  rose, 

Flushing  his  brow,  and  in  his  pained  heart 

Made  purple  riot ;  then  doth  he  propose 

A  stratagem,  that  makes  the  beldame  start : 

"  A  cruel  man  and  impious  thou  art ! 

Sweet  lady,  let  her  pray,  and  sleep  and  dream 

Alone  with  her  good  angels,  far  apart 

From  wicked  men  like  thee.     Go,  go  !     I  deem 

Thou  canst  not  surely  be  the  same  that  thou  didst  seem. ' ' 

"  I  will  not  harm  her,  by  all  saints  I  swear ! " 
Quoth  Porphyro  ;  "O,  may  I  ne'er  find  grace 
When  my  weak  voice  shall  whisper  its  last  prayer. 
If  one  of  her  soft  ringlets  I  displace. 
Or  look  with  ruffian  passion  in  her  face : 
Good  Angela,  believe  me  by  these  tears ; 
Or  I  will,  even  in  a  moment's  space. 
Awake,  with  horrid  shout,  my  foemen's  ears, 
And  beard  them,  though  they  be  more  fanged  than 
wolves  and  bears." 

"Ah  !  why  wilt  thou  affright  a  feeble  soul  ? 

A  poor,  weak,  palsy-stricken,  churchyard  thing. 

Whose  passing-bell  may  ere  the  midnight  toll ; 

WTiose  prayers  for  thee,  each  morn  and  evening. 

Were  never  missed."    Thus  plaining,  doth  she  bring 

A  gentler  speech  from  burning  Porphyro  ; 

So  woful,  and  of  such  deep  sorrowing. 

That  Angela  gives  promise  she  will  do 

Whatever  he  shall  wish,  betide  her  weal  or  woe. 

Which  was,  to  lead  him,  in  close  secrecy. 
Even  to  Madeline's  chamber,  and  there  hide 
Him  in  a  closet,  of  such  privacy 
That  he  might  see  her  beauty  unespied. 


106 


CROWN   JEWELS. 


And  win  perhaps  that  night  a  peerless  bride, 

While  legioned  fairies  paced  the  coverlet, 

And  pale  enchantment  held  her  sleepy-eyed. 

Never  on  such  a  night  have  lovers  met, 

Since  Merlin  paid  his  demon  all  the  monstrous  debt. 

"  It  shall  be  as  thou  wishest,"  said  the  dame  ; 
"All  cates  and  dainties  shall  be  stored  there 
Quickly  on  this  feast-night ;  by  the  tambour  frame 
Her  own  lute  thou  wilt  see  ;  no  time  to  spare, 
For  I  am  slow  and  feeble,  and  scarce  dare 
On  such  a  catering  trust  my  dizzy  head. 
Wait  here,  my  child,  with  patience  kneel  in  prayer 
The  while.    Ah  !  thou  must  needs  the  lady  wed, 
Or  may  I  never  leave  my  grave  among  the  dead." 

So  saying,  she  hobbled  off  with  busy  fear. 

The  lover's  endless  minutes  slowly  passed  : 

The  dame  returned,  and  whispered  in  his  ear 

To  follow  her  ;  with  aged  eyes  aghast 

From  fright  of  dim  espial.     Safe  at  last, 

Through  many  a  dusky  gallery,  they  gain 

The  maiden's  chamber,  silken,  hushed  and  chaste  ; 

Where  Porphyro  took  covert,  pleased  amain. 

His  poor  guide  hurried  back  with  agues  in  her  brain. 

Her  faltering  hand  upon  the  balustrade, 
Old  Angela  was  feeling  for  the  stair, 
When  Madeline,  St.  Agnes'  charmed  maid. 
Rose,  like  a  missioned  spirit,  unaware  ; 
With  silver  taper's  light,  and  pious  care, 
She  turned,  and  down  the  aged  gossip  led 
To  a  safe  level  matting.     Now  prepare, 
Young  Porphyro,  for  gazing  on  that  bed ! 
She  comes,  she  comes  again,  like  ring-dove,  frayed 
and  fled. 

Out  went  the  taper  as  she  hurried  in  ; 

Its  little  smoke,  in  pallid  moonshine,  died  ; 

She  closed  the  door,  she  panted,  all  akin 

To  spirits  of  the  air,  and  visions  wide  ; 

No  uttered  syllable,  or,  woe  betide  ! 

But  to  her  heart,  her  heart  was  voluble. 

Paining  with  eloquence  her  balmy  side  ; 

As  though  a  tongueless  nightingale  should  swell 

Her  throat  in  vain,  and  die,  heart-stifled  in  her  dell. 

A  casement  high  and  triple-arched  there  was, 
All  garlanded  with  carven  imageries 
Of  fruits,  and  flowers,  and  bunches  of  knot-grass, 
And  diamonded  with  panes  of  quaint  device, 
Innumerable  of  stains  and  splendid  dyes, 
As  are  the  tiger-moth's  deep-damasked  wings  ; 
And  in  the  midst,  'mong  thousand  heraldries, 
And  twilight  saints,  and  dim  emblazonings, 
A  shielded  'scutcheon  blushed  with  blood  of  queens 
and  kings. 

Full  on  this  casement  shone  the  wintry  moon. 
And  threw  warm  gules  on  Madeline's  fair  breast. 
As  down  she  knelt  for  heaven's  grace  and  boon ; 


Rose-bloom  fell  on  her  hands,  together  prest, 
And  on  her  silver  cross  soft  amethyst, 
And  on  her  hair  a  glory,  like  a  saint ; 
She  seemed  a  splendid  angel,  newly  drest, 
Save  wings,  for  heaven.     Porphyro  grew  faint : 
She  knelt,  so  pure  a  thing,  so  free  from  mortal  taint. 

Anon  his  heart  revives  ;  her  vespers  done, 
Of  all  its  wreathed  pearls  her  hair  she  frees  : 
Unclasps  her  warmed  jewels  one  by  one  ; 
Loosens  her  fragrant  bodice  ;  by  degrees 
Her  rich  attire  creeps  rustling  to  her  knees  ; 
Half  hidden,  like  a  mermaid  in  sea-weed, 
Pensive  awhile  she  dreams  awake,  and  sees, 
In  fancy,  fair  St.  Agnes  in  her  bed, 
But  dares  not  look  behind,  or  all  the  charm  is  fled. 

Soon,  trembling  in  her  soft  and  chilly  nest. 
In  sort  of  wakeful  swoon,  perplexed  she  lay, 
Until  the  poppied  warmth  of  sleep  oppressed 
Her  soothdd  limbs,  and  soul  fatigued  away  ; 
Flown  like  a  thought,  until  the  morrow-day  ; 
Blissfully  havened  both  from  joy  and  pain  ; 
Clasped  like  a  missal  where  swart  Paynims  pray  ; 
Blinded  alike  from  sunshine  and  from  rain, 
As  though  a  rose  should  shut,  and  be  a  bud  again. 

Stolen  to  this  paradise,  and  so  entranced, 
Porphyro  gazed  upon  her  empty  dress, 
And  listened  to  her  breathing,  if  it  chanced 
To  wake  into  a  slumberous  tenderness  : 
Which  when  he  heard,  that  minute  did  he  bless. 
And  breathed  himself;  then  from  the  closet  crept. 
Noiseless  as  fear  in  a  wide  wilderness, 
And  over  the  hushed  carpet,  silent,  stept, 
And  'tween  the  curtains  peeped,  where,  lo  ! — how  fast 
she  slept. 

Then  by  the  bedside,  where  the  faded  moon 

Made  a  dim,  silver  twilight  soft  he  set 

A  table,  and,  half  anguished,  threw  thereon 

A  cloth  of  woven  crimson,  gold,  and  jet : — 

O  for  some  drowsy  morphean  amulet  I 

The  boisterous,  midnight,  festive  clarion. 

The  kettle-drum,  and  far-heard  clarionet, 

Affray  his  ears,  though  but  in  dying  tone  : — 

The  hall-door  shuts  again,  and  all  the  noise  is  gone. 

And  still  she  slept  an  azure  lidded  sleep. 
In  blanched  linen,  smooth,  and  lavendered  ; 
While  he  from  forth  the  closet  brought  a  heap 
Of  candied  apple,  quince,  and  plum,  and  gourd  ; 
With  jellies  soother  than  the  creamy  curd. 
And  lucent  syrups,  tinct  with  cinamon  ; 
Manna  and  dates,  in  argosy  transferred 
From  Fez  ;  and  spiced  dainties,  every  one, 
From  silken  Samarcand  to  cedared  Lebanon. 

These  delicates  he  heaped  with  glowing  hand 
On  golden  dishes  and  in  baskets  bright 
Of  wreathed  silver.     Sumptuous  they  stand 
In  the  retired  quiet  of  the  night. 


LOVE  AND   FRIENDSHIP. 


107 


Filling  the  chilly  room  with  perfume  light, — 

"  And  now,  my  love,  my  seraph  fair,  awake  ! 

Thou  art  my  heaven,  and  I  thine  eremite  ; 

Open  thine  eyes,  for  meek  St.  Agnes'  sake. 

Or  I  shall  drowse  beside  thee,  so  my  soul  doth  ache." 

Thus  whispering,  his  warm,  unnerved  arm 
Sank  in  her  pillow.     Shaded  was  her  dream 
By  the  dusk  curtains  : — 'twas  a  midnight  charm 
Impossible  to  melt  as  iced  stream  : 
The  lustrous  salvers  in  the  moonlight  gleam  ; 
Broad  golden  fringe  upon  the  carpet  lies  ; 
It  seemed  he  never,  never  could  redeem 
From  such  a  steadfast  spell  his  lady's  eyes  ; 
So  mused  awhile,  entoiled  in  woofed  phantasies. 

Awakening  up,  he  took  her  hollow  lute — 
Tumultuous — and,  in  chords  that  tenderest  be. 
He  played  an  ancient  ditty,  long  since  mute, 
In  Provence  called  "  La  belle  dame  sans  merci ;  " 
Close  to  her  ear  touching  the  melody  ; — 
Wherewith  disturbed,  she  uttered  a  soft  moan  : 
He  ceased  ;  she  panted  quick — and  suddenly 
Her  blue  affrayed  ej'es  wide  open  shone  : 
Upon  his  knees  he  sank,  pale  as  smooth-sculptured 
stone. 

Her  eyes  were  open,  but  she  still  beheld. 

Now  wide  awake,  the  vision  of  her  sleep. 

There  was  a  painful  change  that  nigh  expelled 

The  blisses  of  her  dream  so  pure  and  deep  ; 

At  which  fair  Madeline  began  to  weep. 

And  moan  forth  witless  words  with  many  a  sigh  ; 

While  still  her  gaze  on  Porphyro  would  keep ; 

Who  knelt  with  joined  hands  and  piteous  eye, 

Fearing  to  move  or  speuk,  she  looked  so  dreamingly. 

"Ah,  Porphyro  ! "  she  said,  "but  even  now 

Thy  voice  was  at  sweet  tremble  in  mine  ear, 

Made  tunable  with  every  sweetest  vow  ; 

And  those  sad  eyes  were  spiritual  and  clear  ; 

How  changed  thou  art !  how  pallid,  chill,  and  drear  ! 

Give  me  that  voice  again,  my  Porphyro, 

Those  looks  immortal,  those  complainings  dear! 

O,  leave  me  not  in  this  eternal  woe. 

For  if  thou  diest,  my  love,  I  know  not  where  to  go." 

Beyond  a  mortal  man  impassioned  far 

At  these  voluptuous  accents,  he  arose. 

Ethereal,  flushed,  and  like  a  throbbing  star 

Seen  mid  the  sapphire  heaven's  deep  repose ; 

Into  her  dream  he  melted,  as  the  rose 

Blendeth  its  odor  with  the  violet — 

Solution  sweet ;  meantime  the  frost-wind  blows 

Like  love's  alarm  pattering  the  sharp  sleet 

Against  the  window  panes :  St.  Agnes'  moon  hath  set. 

'Tis  dark  ;  quick  pattereth  the  flaw-blown  sleet : 
"This  is  no  dieam,  my  bride,  my  Madeline  1 " 
'Tis  dark  ;  the  ic^d  gusts  still  rave  and  beat: 
"No  dream?  alas  !  alas  1  and  woe  is  mine  ! 
Porphyro  will  leave  me  here  to  fade  and  pine. 


Cruel !  what  traitor  could  thee  hither  bring  ? 

I  curse  not,  for  my  heart  is  lost  in  thine. 

Though  thou  forsakest  a  deceived  thing ; — 

A  dove  forlorn  and  lost,  with  sick,  unpruned  wing." 

"My  Madeline  !  sweet  dreamer !  lovely  bride  ! 

Say,  may  I  be  for  aye  thy  vassal  blest? 

Thy  beauty's  shield,  heart-shaped  and  vermeil  dyed? 

Ah,  silver  shrine,  here  will  I  take  my  rest 

After  so  many  hours  of  toil  and  quest, 

A  famished  pilgrim — saved  by  miracle. 

Though  I  have  found,  I  will  not  rob  thy  nest, 

Saving  of  thy  sweet  self;  if  thou  think'st  well 

To  trust,  fair  Madeline,  to  no  rude  infidel. 

"  Hark  !  't  is  an  elfin  storm  from  faery  land. 

Of  haggard  seeming,  but  a  boon  indeed : 

Arise,  arise  !  the  morning  is  at  hand  ; — 

The  bloated  wassailers  will  never  heed  : 

Let  us  away,  my  love,  with  happy  speed  ; 

There  are  no  ears  to  hear,  or  eyes  to  see — 

Drowned  all  in  Rhenish  and  the  sleepy  mead  : 

Awake,  arise,  my  love,  and  fearlesS  be. 

For  o'er  the  southern  moors  I  have  a  home  for  thee." 

She  hurried  at  his  words,  beset  with  fears. 

For  there  were  sleeping  dragons  all  around. 

At  glaring  watch,  perhaps,  with  ready  spears ; 

Down  the  wide  stairs  a  darkling  way  they  found, 

In  all  the  house  was  heard  no  human  sound. 

A  chain-drooped  lamp  was  flickering  by  each  door ; 

The  arras,  rich  with  horseman,  hawk,  and  hound. 

Fluttered  in  the  besieging  wind's  uproar  ; 

And  the  long  carpets  rose  along  the  gusty  floor. 

They  glide,  like  phantoms,  into  the  wide  hall ! 

Like  phantoms  to  the  iron  porch  they  glide. 

Where  lay  the  porter,  in  uneasy  sprawl, 

With  a  huge  empty  flagon  by  his  side  : 

The  wakeful  bloodhound  rose,  and  shook  his  hide, 

But  his  sagacious  eye  an  inmate  owns  ; 

By  one,  and  one,  the  bolts  full  easy  slide  ; 

The  chains  lie  silent  on  the  footworn  stones ; 

The  key  turns,  and  the  door  upon  its  hinges  groans  ; 

And  they  are  gone !  ay,  ages  long  ago 
These  lovers  fled  into  the  storm. 
That  night  the  baron  dreamt  of  many  a  woe. 
And  all  his  warrior-guests,  with  shade  and  form 
Of  witch,  and  demon,  .and  large  coffin  worm. 
Were  long  be  nightmared.    Angela,  the  old. 
Died  palsy-twitched,  with  meagre  face  deform  ; 
The  beadsman,  after  thousand  aves  told. 
For  aye  unsought-for  slept  among  his  ashes  cold. 

John  Kkats. 

FAREWELL  TO  HIS  WIFE. 

(Cj^^ARE  thee  well !  and  if  forever, 
"^'i'T^  Still  forever,  fare  thee  well ; 

-*•  Even  though  unforgiving,  never 

'Gainst  thee  shall  my  heart  rebel. 


108 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


Would  that  breast  were  bared  before  thee 
Where  thy  head  so  oft  hath  hiin, 

While  the  placid  sleep  came  o'er  thee 
Which  thou  ne'er  canst  know  again: 

Would  that  breast,  by  thee  glanced  over, 
Every  inmost  thought  could  show  ! 

Then  thou  wouldst  at  last  discover 
'T  was  not  well  to  spurn  it  so. 

Though  the  world  for  this  commend  thee — 
Though  it  smile  upon  the  blow, 

Even  its  praises  must  offend  thee, 
Founded  on  another's  woe  : 

Though  my  many  faults  defaced  me, 

Could  no  other  arm  be  found 
Than  the  one  which  once  embraced  me. 

To  inflict  a  cureless  wound  ? 

Yet,  O,  yet  thyself  deceive  not ; 

Love  may  sink  by  slow  decay ; 
But  by  sudden  wrench,  believe  not 

Hearts  can  thus  be  torn  away  : 

Still  thine  own  its  life  retaineth — 
Still  must  mine,  though  bleeding  beat ; 

And  the  undying  thought  which  paineth 
Is — that  we  no  more  may  meet. 

These  are  words  of  deeper  sorrow 
Than  the  wail  above  the  dead  ; 

Both  shall  live,  but  every  morrow 
Wake  us  from  a  widowed  bed. 

And  when  thou  wouldst  solace  gather, 
When  our  child's  first  accents  flow, 

Wilt  thou  teach  her  to  say  "  Father  !" 
Though  his  care  she  must  forego  ! 

When  her  little  hands  shall  press  thee. 
When  her  lip  to  thine  is  pressed, 

Think  of  him  whose  prayer  shall  bless  tiiee. 
Think  of  him  thy  love  had  blessed  ! 

Should  her  lineaments  resemble 
Those  thou  nevermore  mayst  see, 

Then  thy  heart  will  softly  tremble 
With  a  pulse  yet  true  to  me. 

All  my  faults  perchance  thou  knowest, 
All  my  madness  none  can  know  ; 

All  my  hopes,  whene'er  thou  goest, 
Whither,  yet  with  thee  they  go. 

Every  feeling  hath  been  shaken  ; 

Pride,  which  not  a  world  could  bow, 
Bows  to  thee — by  thee  forsaken, 

Even  my  soul  forsakes  me  now ; 

Cut 't  is  done  ;  all  words  are  idle — 
Words  from  me  are  vainer  still ; 

But  the  thoughts  we  cannot  bridle 
Force  their  way  without  the  will. 


Fare  thee  well ! — thus  disunited, 

Torn  from  every  nearer  tie. 
Seared  in  heait  and  lone,  and  blighted, 

More  than  this  I  scarce  can  die. 

Lord  Byron, 


O' 


BLACK-EYED  SUSAN. 

LL  in  the  Downs  the  fleet  was  moored, 
The  streamers  waving  in  the  wmd, 
When  black-eyed  Susan  came  aboard  ; 
'■  O,  where  shall  I  my  true  love  find  i" 
Tell  me,  ye  jovial  sailors,  tell  me  true 
If  my  sweet  William  sails  among  the  crew.'' 

William,  who  high  upon  the  yaM 

Rocked  with  the  billow  to  and  fro, 
Soon  as  her  well-known  voice  he  heard 

He  sighed,  and  cast  his  eyes  below  : 
The  cord  slides  swiftly  through  his  glowmg  hands. 
And  quick  as  lightning  on  the  deck  he  stands. 

So  the  sweet  lark,  high  poised  in  air. 

Shuts  close  his  pinions  to  his  breast 
If  chance  his  mate's  shrill  call  he  hear, 

And  drops  at  once  into  her  nest : — 
The  noblest  captain  in  the  British  fleet 
Might  envy  William's  lip  those  kisses  sweet. 

"  O  Susan,  Susan,  lovely  dear. 

My  vows  shall  ever  true  remain  ; 
Let  me  kiss  off"  that  falling  tear ; 

We  only  part  to  meet  again. 
Change  as  ye  list,  ye  winds  ;  my  heart  shall  be 
The  faithful  compass  that  still  points  to  thee. 

"Believe  not  what  the  landmen  say 

Who  tempt  with  doubts  thy  constant  mind  : 
They'll  tell  thee,  sailors  when  away, 

In  every  port  a  mistress  find  : 
Yes,  yes,  believe  them  when  they  tell  thee  so, 
For  Thou  art  present  wheresoe'er  I  go. 

"  If  to  fair  India's  coast  we  sail. 

Thy  eyes  are  seen  in  diamonds  bright 
Thy  breath  is  Afric's  spicy  gale, 

Thy  skm  is  ivory  so  white. 
Thus  every  beauteous  object  that  I  view 
Wakes  in  my  soul  some  charm  of  lovely  Sue. 

"Though  battle  call  me  from  thy  arms. 

Let  not  my  pretty  Susan  mourn ; 
Though  cannons  roar,  yet  safe  from  harms 

William  shall  to  his  dear  return. 
Love  turns  aside  the  balls  that  round  me  fly, 
Lest  precious  tears  should  drop  from  Susan's  eye." 

The  boatswain  gave  the  dreadful  word, 

The  sails  their  swelling  bosom  spread  ; 
No  longer  must  she  stay  aboard  : 

They  kissed,  she  sighed,  he  hung  his  head. 
Her  lessening  boat  unwilling  rows  to  land  ; 
"Adieu  ! "  she  cried  ;  and  waved  her  lily  hand. 

John  Gay. 


LOVE   AND   FRIENDSHIP. 


100 


THE  BLOOM  WAS  ON  THE  ALDER  AND  THE 
TASSEL  ON  THE  CORN. 

HEARD  the  bob-white  whistle    in    the    dewy 

breath  of  morn  ; 
The  bloom  was  on  the  alder  and  the  tassel  on 
the  corn. 
I  stood  with  beating  heart  beside  the  babbling  Mac-o- 

chee, 
To  See  my  love  come  down  the  glen  to  keep  her  tryst 
with  me. 

I  saw  her  pace,  with  quiet  grace,  the  shaded  path 

along, 
And  pause  to  pluck  a  flower,  or  hear  the  thrush's  song. 
Denied  by  her  proud  father  as  a  suitor  to  be  seen, 
She  came  to  me,  with  loving  trust,  my  gracious  little 

queen. 

Above  my  station,  heaven  knows,  that  gentle  maiden 

shone, 
For  she  was  belle  and  '^•^de  beloved,  and  I  a  youth 

unknown. 
The  rich  and  great  about  her  thronged,  and  sought 

on  bended  knee 
For  love  this  gracious  princess  gave,  with  all  her 

heart,  to  me. 

So  like  a  startled  fawn  before  my  longing  eyes  she 
stood, 

With  all  the  freshness  of  a  girl  in  flush  of  woman- 
hood. 

I  trembled  as  I  put  my  arm  about  her  form  divine, 

And  stammered,  as  in  awkward  speech,  I  begged  her 
to  be  mine. 

Tis  sweet  to  hear  the  pattering  rain,  that  lulls  a  dim- 
lit  dream — 

'Tis  sweet  to  hear  the  song  of  birds,  and  sweet  the 
rippling  stream ; 

'Tis  sweet  amid  the  mountain  pines  to  hear  the  south 
winds  sigh, 

More  sweet  than  these  and  all  beside  was  the  loving, 
low  reply. 

The  little  hand  I  held  in  mine  held  all  I  had  of  life, 
To  mold  its  better  destiny  and  soothe  to  sleep  its 

strife. 
'Tis  said  that  angels  watch  o'er  men,  commissioned 

from  above ; 
My  angel  walked  with  me  en  earth,  and  gave  to  me 

her  love. 

Ah !  dearest  wife,  my  heart  is  stirred,  my  eyes  are 

dim  with  tears — 
I  think  upon  the  loving  faith  of  all  these  bygone 

years. 
For  now  we  stand  upon  this  spot,  as  in  that  dewy 

mom, 
With  the  bloom  upon  the  alder  and  the  tassel  on  the 
com. 

Don  Piatt. 


LAMENT 

OF  THE  YOUNG  HIGHLANDER  SUMMONED  FROM  THE  SIDE  OF  HIS 
BRIDE  BY  THE  "  FIERY  CROSS  "  OF  RODERICK  DHU. 

'HE  heath  this  night  must  be  my  bed, 
The  bracken  curtain  for  my  head. 
My  lullaby  the  warder's  tread, 

Far,  far  from  love  and  thee,  Mary ; 
To-morrow  eve,  more  stilly  laid 
My  couch  may  be  my  bloody  plaid. 
My  vesper  song,  thy  wail,  sweet  maid! 

It  will  not  waken  me,  Mary ! 

I  may  not,  dare  not,  fancy  now 

The  grief  that  clouds  thy  lovely  brow, 

I  dare  not  think  upon  thy  vow, 

And  all  it  promised  me,  Mary. 
No  fond  regret  must  Norman  know ; 
When  bursts  Clan-Alpine  on  the  foe, 
His  heart  must  be  like  bender  bow, 

His  foot  like  arrow  free,  Mary. 

A  time  will  come  with  feeling  fraught ! 
For,  if  I  fall  in  battle  fought, 
Thy  hapless  lover's  dying  thought 

Shall  be  a  thought  on  thee,  Mary. 
And  if  returned  from  conquered  foes. 
How  blithely  will  the  evening  close, 
How  sweet  the  linnet  sing  repose. 

To  my  young  bride  and  me,  Mary  ! 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 


llJ 


WE  PARTED  IN  SILENCE 

E  parted  in  silence,  we  parted  by  night. 
On  the  banks  of  that  lonely  river ; 
Where  the    fragrant   limes    their  boughs 
unite, 
We  met — and  we  parted  forever  ! 
The  night-bird  sung,  and  the  stars  above 

Told  many  a  touching  story. 
Of  friends  long  passed  to  the  kingdom  of  love, 
Where  the  soul  wears  its  mantle  of  glory. 

We  parted  in  silence — our  cheeks  were  wet 

With  the  tears  that  were  past  controlling  ; 
We  vowed  we  would  never,  no,  never  forget. 

And  those  vows  at  the  time  were  consoling  ; 
But  those  lips  that  echoed  the  sounds  of  mine 

Are  as  cold  as  that  lonely  river ; 
And  that  eye,  that  beautiful  spirit's  shrine. 

Has  shrouded  its  fires  forever.  ,• 

And  now  on  the  midnight  sky  I  look, 

And  my  heart  grows  full  of  weeping  ; 
Each  star  is  to  me  a  sealed  book. 

Some  tale  of  that  loved  one  keeping. 
We  parted  in  silence — we  parted  in  tears, 

On  the  banks  of  that  lonely  river  ; 
But  the  odor  and  bloom  of  those  bygone  years 

Shall  hang  o'er  its  waters  forever. 

Julia  Crawford. 


110 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


LOVE  AND  TIME. 

*WO  pilgrims  from  the  distant  plain 

Come  quickly  o'er  the  mossy  ground. 
One  is  a  boy,  with  locks  of  gold 
Thick  curling  round  his  face  so  fair ; 
The  other  pilgrim,  stem  and  old. 
Has  snowy  beard  and  silver  hair. 

The  youth  with  many  a  merry  trick 

Goes  singing  on  his  careless  way  ; 
His  old  companion  walks  as  quick. 

But  speaks  no  word  by  night  or  day. 
Where'er  the  old  man  treads,  the  grass 

Fast  fadeth  with  a  certain  doom  ; 
But  where  the  beauteous  boy  doth  pass 

Unnumbered  flowers  are  seen  to  bloom. 

And  thus  before  the  sage,  the  boy 

Trips  lightly  o'er  the  blooming  lands, 
And  proudly  bears  a  pretty  toy — 

A  crystal  glass  with  diamond  sands. 
A  smile  o'er  any  brow  would  pass 

To  see  him  frolic  in  the  sun — 
To  see  him  shake  the  crystal  glass, 

And  make  the  sands  more  quickly  run. 

And  now  they  leap  the  streamlet  o'er, 

A  silver  thread  so  white  and  thin, 
And  now  they  reach  the  open  door. 
And  now  they  lightly  enter  in  : 
'  God  save  all  here  " — that  kind  wish  flies 

Still  sweeter  from  his  lips  so  sweet ; 
■  God  save  you  kindly,"  Norah  cries, 

"Sit  down,  my  child,  and  rest  and  eat." 

'  Thanks,  gentle  Norah,  fair  and  good, 

We'll  rest  awhile  our  weary  feet ; 
But  though  this  old  man  needeth  food. 

There's  nothing  here  that  he  can  eat. 
His  taste  is  strange,  he  eats  afone. 

Beneath  some  ruined  cloister's  cope, 
Or  on  some  tottering  turret's  stone, 

While  I  can  only  live  on — hope  ! 

A  week  ago,  ere  you  were  wed — 

It  was  the  very  night  before — 
Upon  so  many  sweets  I  fed 

While  passing  by  your  mother's  door — 
It  was  that  dear,  delicious  hour 

When  Owen  here  the  nosegay  brought, 
And  found  you  in  the  woodbine  bower — 

Since  then,  indeed,  I've  needed  naught" 

A  blush  steals  over  Norah's  face, 

A  smile  comes  over  Owen's  brow, 
A  tranquil  joy  illumes  the  place, 

As  if  the  moon  were  shining  now ; 
The  boy  beholds  the  pleasing  pain, 

The  sweet  confusion  he  has  done. 
And  shakes  the  crystal  glass  again. 

And  makes  the  sands  more  quickly  run. 


"  Dear  Norah,  we  are  pilgrims,  bound 

Upon  an  endless  path  sublime ; 
We  pace  the  green  earth  round  and  round, 

And  mortals  call  us  love  and  time  ; 
He  seeks  the  many,  I  the  few  ; 

I  dwell  with  peasants,  he  with  kings. 
We  seldom  meet ;  but  when  we  do. 

I  take  his  glass,  and  he  my  wings. 

"  And  thus  together  on  we  go, 

Where'er  I  chance  or  wish  to  lead ; 
And  time,  whose  lonely  steps  are  slow. 

Now  sweeps  along  with  lightning  speed. 
Now  on  our  bright  predestined  way 

We  must  to  other  regions  pass  ; 
But  take  this  gift,  and  night  and  day 

Look  well  upon  its  truthful  glass. 

"  How  quick  or  slow  the  bright  sands  fall 

Is  hid  from  lovers'  eyes  alone. 
If  you  can  see  them  move  at  all. 

Be  sure  your  heart  has  colder  grown. 
'Tis  coldness  makes  the  glass  grow  dry. 

The  icy  hand,  the  freezing  brow  ; 
But  warm  the  heart  and  breathe  the  sigh, 

And  then  they'll  pass  you  know  not  how." 

She  took  the  glass  where  love's  warm  hands 

A  bright  impervious  vapor  cast. 
She  looks,  but  cannot  see  the  sands. 

Although  she  feels  they're  falling  fast 
But  cold  hours  came,  and  then,  alas  ! 

She  saw  them  falling  frozen  through, 
Till  love's  warm  light  suffused  the  glass. 

And  hid  the  loosening  sands  from  view  ! 

Denis  Florence  MacCarthv. 


HERO  TO  LEANDER. 

GO  not  yet  my  love. 

The  night  is  dark  and  vast ; 
y     The  white  moon  is  hid  in  her  heaven  above 
And  the  waves  climb  high  and  fast. 
O,  kiss  me,  kiss  me,  once  again, 

Lest  thy  kiss  should  be  the  last. 
O,  kiss  me  ere  we  part ; 
Grow  closer  to  my  heart. 
My  heart  is  warmer  surely  than  the  bosom  of  the  main. 
O  joy  !  O  bliss  of  blisses  ! 

My  heart  of  hearts  art  thou. 
Come,  bathe  me  with  thy  kisses, 

My  eyelids  and  my  brow. 
Hark  how  the  wild  rain  hisses, 
And  the  loud  sea  roars  below. 

Thy  heart  beats  through  thy  rosy  limbs, 

So  gladly  doth  it  stir; 
Thy  eye  in  drops  of  gladness  swims. 

I  have  bathed  thee  with  the  pleasant  myrrh  ; 
Thy  locks  are  dripping  balm  ; 
Thou  shalt  not  wander  hence  to-night. 


LOVE  AND    FRIENDSHIP. 


Ill 


I'll  stay  thee  with  my  kisses. 
To-night  the  roaring  brine 

Will  rend  thy  golden  tresses; 
The  ocean  with  the  morrow  light 
Will  be  both  blue  and  calm  ; 
And  the  billow  will  embrace  thee  with  a  kiss  as  soft 

as  mine. 

No  western  odors  wander 

On  the  black  and  moaning  sea, 
And  when  thou  art  dead,  Leander, 

My  soul  must  follow  thee  ! 
O,  go  not  yet,  my  love. 

Thy  voice  is  sweet  and  low  ; 
The  deep  salt  wave  breaks  in  above 

Those  marble  steps  below. 
The  turret-stairs  are  wet 

That  lead  into  the  sea. 

Leander !  go  not  yet. 

The  pleasant  stars  have  set : 

O,  go  not,  go  not  yet. 

Or  I  will  follow  thee. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


FAREWELL!    BUT  WHENEVER. 

(J^'AREWELL  !  but  whenever  you  welcome  the 
"Y^  hour 

A         That  awakens  the  night-song  of  mirth  in  your 

bower, 
Then  think  of  the  friend  who  once  welcomed  it  too, 


And  forgot  his  own  griefs,  to  be  happy  with  you. 

His  griefs  may  return — not  a  hope  may  remain 

Of  the  few  that    have  brightened  his  pathway    of 

pain — 
But  he  ne'er  can  forget  the  short  vision  that  threw 
Its  enchantment  around  him    while  lingering  with 

you ! 

And  still  on  that  evening  when  pleasure  fills  up 

To  the  highest  top  sparkle  each  heart  and  each  cup, 

Where'er  my  path  lies,  be  it  gloomy  or  bright, 

My  soul,  happy  friends,  will  be  with  you  that  night ; 

Shall  join  in  your  revels,  your  sports,  and  your  wiles. 

And   return    to  me,   beaming  all    o'er    with    your 

smiles — 
Too  blest  if  it  tell  me  that,  mid  the  gay  cheer. 
Some  kind  voice  has  murmured,   "  I  wish  he  were 

here  !" 

Let  fate  do  her  worst,  there  are  relics  of  joy, 
Bright   dreams   of  the  past,   which  she  cannot  de- 
stroy ; 
Which  come,  in  the  night-time  of  sorrow  and  care, 
And  bring  back  the  features  which  joy  used  to  wear. 
Long,  long  be  my  heart  with  such  memories  filled  1 
Like  the  vase   in  which  roses  have  once  been  dis- 
tilled— 
You  may  break,  you  may  shatter  the  vase,  if  you  will, 
But  the  scent  of  the  roses  will  hang  round  it  still. 

Thomas  Moore. 


BESUTIES  OF  NATURE. 


THE  GREENWOOD. 


WHEN    'tis   summer 
weather, 
And  the  yellow  bee.with 
fairy  sound, 
The  waters  clear  is  humming 

round, 
And  the  cuckoo  sings  unseen, 
And  the    leaves    are    waving 
green — 

O,  then  't  is  sweet, 
In  some  retreat, 
To  hear  the  murmuring  dove, 
With    those    whom    on   earth 

alone  we  love, 
And  to  wind  through  thegreen- 
wood  together. 

But  when  't  is  winter  weather. 

And  crosses  grieve, 

And  friends  deceive, 

And  rain  and  sleet 

The  lattice  beat — 

O,  then  't  is  sweet 

To  sit  and  sing 
Of  the  friends  with  whom,  in  the  days  of  spring, 
We  roamed  through  the  greenwood  together. 
William  Lisle  Bowles. 


THANATOPSIS. 

'O  him  who,  in  the  love  of  Nature,  holds 

Communion  with  her  visible  forms,  she  speaks 
A  various  language  :  for  his  gayer  hours 
"f*        She  has  a  voice  of  gladness,  and  a  smile 
And  eloquence  of  beauty ;  and  she  glides 
Into  his  darker  musings  with  a  mild 
And  gentle  sympathy,  that  steals  away 
Their  shaipness,  ere  he  is  aware.    When  thoughts 
Of  the  last  bitter  hour  come  like  a  blight 
Over  thy  spirit,  and  sad  images 
Of  the  stern  agony,  and  shroud,  and  pall. 
And  breathless  darkness,  and  the  narrow  house. 
Make  thee  to  shudder,  and  grow  sick  at  heart. 
Go  forth  under  the  open  sky,  and  list 
To  nature's  teachings,  while  from  all  around — 
Earth  and  her  waters,  and  the  depths  of  air — 
Comes  a  still  voice — yet  a  few  days,  and  thee 
The  all-beholding  sun  shall  see  no  more 
In  all  his  course;  nor  yet  in  the  cold  ground. 
Where  thy  pale  form  was  laid,  with  many  tears. 
Nor  in  the  embrace  of  ocean,  shall  exist 


Thy  image.     Earth,  tnat  nourished  thee,  shall  claim 
Thy  growth,  to  be  resolved  to  earth  again  ; 
And,  lost  each  human  trace,  surrendering  up 
Thine  individual  being,  shalt  thou  go 
To  mix  forever  with  tiie  elements  ; 
To  be  a  brother  to  the  insensible  rock, 
And  to  the  sluggish  clod,  which  the  rude  swain 
Turns  with  his  share,  and  treads  upon.     The  oak 
Shall  send  his  roots  abroad,  and  pierce  thy  mould. 

Yet  not  to  thine  eternal  resting-place 
Shalt  thou  retire  alone— nor  coulds't  thou  wish 
Couch  more  magnificent.     Thou  shalt  lie  down 
With  patriarchs  of  the  infant  world— with  kings. 
The  powerful  of  tlie  earth — the  wise,  the  good. 
Fair  forms,  and  hoary  seers  of  ages  past, 
All  in  one  mighty  sepulchre.     The  hills, 
Rock-ribbed,  and  ancient  as  the  sun ;  the  vales 
Stretcliing  in  pensive  quietness  between  ; 
The  venerable  woods  ;  rivers  that  move 
In  majesty,  and  the  complaining  brooks, 
That  make  the  meadows  green ;  and,  poured  round  all. 
Old  ocean's  gray  and  melancholy  waste — 
Are  but  the  solemn  decorations  all 
Of  the  great  tomb  of  man !    The  golden  sun. 
The  planets,  all  the  infinite  host  of  heaven, 
Are  shining  on  the  sad  abodes  of  death, 
Through  the  still  lapse  of  ages.     All  that  tread 
The  globe  are  but  a  handful  to  the  tribes 
That  slumber  in  its  bosom.     Take  the  wings 
Of  morning,  traverse  Barca's  desert  sands. 
Or  lose  thyself  in  the  continuous  woods 
Where  rolls  the  Oregon,  and  hears  no  sound 
Save  his  own  dasliings — yet  the  dead  are  there  ! 
And  millions  in  those  solitudes,  since  first 
The  flight  of  years  began,  have  laid  them  down 
In  their  last  sleep— the  dead  reign  there  alone  ! 
So  shalt  thou  rest ;  and  what  if  thou  withdraw 
In  silence  from  the  living,  and  no  friend 
Take  note  of  thy  departure  ?    All  that  breathe 
Will  share  thy  destiny.     The  gay  will  laugh 
When  thou  art  gone,  the  solemn  brood  of  care 
Plod  on,  and  each  one,  as  before,  will  chase 
His  favorite  phantom  ;  yet  all  these  shall  leave 
Their  mirth  and  their  employments,  and  shall  come 
And  make  their  bed  with  thee.     As  the  long  train 
Of  ages  glide  away,  the  sons  of  men — 
The  youth  in  life's  green  spring,  and  he  who  goes 
In  the  full  strength  of  years,  matron  and  maid, 
The  bowed  with  age,  the  infant  in  the  smiles 
And  beauty  of  its  innocent  age  cut  off — 
Shall  one  by  one,  be  gathered  to  thy  side 
By  those  who  in  their  turn  shall  follow  them. 

So  live,  that  when  thy  summons  comes  to  join 
The  innumerable  caravan  that  moves 
To  the  pale  realms  of  shade,  where  each  shall  take 


(112) 


114 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


IN  JUNE. 

'  O  sweet,  so  sweet  the  roses  in  their  blowing, 
So  sweet  the  daffodils,  so  fair  to  see  ; 
So  blithe  and  gay  the  humming-bird  agoing 
From  flower  to  flower,  a  hunting  with  the 
bee. 

So  sweet,  so  sweet  the  calling  of  the  thrushes, 
The  calling,  cooing,  wooing,  everywhere  ; 

So  sweet  the  water's  song  through  reeds  and  rushes, 
The  plover's  piping  note,  now  here,  now  there. 

So  Sweet,  so  sweet  from  off  the  fields  of  clover. 
The  west-wind  blowing,  blowing  up  the  hill ; 

So  sweet,  so  sweet  with  news  of  some  one's  lover, 
Fleet  footsteps,  ringing  nearer,  nearer  still. 

So  near,  so  near,  now  listen,  listen,  thrushes  ; 

Now  plover,  blackbird,  cease,  and  let  me  hear ; 
And,    water,    hush    your  song  through  reeds  and 
rushes. 

That  I  may  know  whose  lover  cometh  near. 

So  loud,  so  loud  the  thrushes  kept  their  calling, 
Plover  or  blackbird  ntver  heeding  me ; 

So  loud  the  mill-stream  too  kept  fretting,  falling, 
O'er  bar  and  bank,  in  brawling,  boii.terous  glee. 

So  loud,  so  loud  ;    yet  blackbird,  thrush,  nor  plover, 

Nor  noisy  mill-stream,  in  its  fret  and  fall. 
Could  drown  the  voice,  the  low  voice  of  my  lover. 
My  lover  calling  through  the  thrushes'  call. 

"  Come  down,  come  down ! "  he  called,  and  straight 

the  thrushes 

From  mate  to  mate  sang  all  at  once,  "  Come  down !' ' 

And  while  the  water  laughed  through  reeds  and  rushes, 

The  blackbird  chirped,  the  plover  piped,  "Come 

down !" 

Then  down  and  off,  and  through  the  fields  of  clover, 
I  followed,  followed,  at  my  lover's  call ; 

Listening  no  more  to  blackbird,  thrush,  or  plover, 
The  water's  laugh,  the  mill-stream's  fret  and  fall. 

Nora  Perry. 


MAY-EVE.  OR  KATE  OF  ABERDEEN 

'HE  silver  moon's  enamoured  beam 

Steals  softly  through  the  night. 
To  wanton  with  the  winding  stream, 

And  kiss  reflected  light. 
To  beds  of  state  go,  balmy  sleep 

('Tis  where  you've  seldom  been). 
May's  vigil  while  the  shepherds  keep 

With  Kate  of  Aberdeen. 

Upon  the  green  the  virgins  wait. 

In  rosy  chaplets  gay, 
Till  morn  unbars  her  golden  gate, 

And  gives  the  promised  May. 


Methinks  I  hear  the  maids  declare. 
The  promised  May,  when  seen. 

Not  Iialf  so  fragrant,  half  so  fair, 
As  Kate  of  Aberdeen. 

Strike  up  the  tabor's  boldest  notes. 

We  11  rouse  the  nodding  grove ; 
The  nested  birds  shall  raise  their  throats, 

And  hail  the  maid  1  love. 
And  see — the  matin  lark  mistakes, 

He  quits  the  tufted  green  : 
Fond  bird  !  'tis  not  the  morning  breaks, 

'Tis  Kate  of  Aberdeen. 

Now  lightsome  o'er  the  level  mead. 

Where  midnight  fairies  rove, 
Like  them  the  )ocund  dance  we'll  lead, 

Or  tune  the  reed  to  love  : 
For  see,  the  rosy  May  draws  nigh  ; 

She  claims  a  virgin  queen  ; 
And  hark  !  the  happy  shepherds  cry, 

'Tis  Kate  of  Aberdeen. 

John  Cunningham. 


MARCH 

'HE  stormy  March  is  come  at  last, 

With  wind,  and  cloud,  and  changing  skies 
I  hear  the  rushing  of  the  blast 
"^  That  through  the  snowy  valley  flies. 

Ah  !  passing  few  are  they  who  speak, 
Wild,  stormy  month,  in  praise  of  thee  : 

Yet,  though  thy  winds  are  loud  and  bleak. 
Thou  art  a  welcome  month  to  me. 

For  thou  to  northern  lands  again. 

The  glad  and  glorious  sun  dost  bring. 

And  thou  hast  joined  the  gentle  train, 
And  wear'st  the  gentle  name  of  Spring. 

And,  in  thy  reign  of  blast  and  storm, 
Smiles  many  a  long,  bright,  sunny  day. 

When  the  changed  winds  are  soft  and  warm. 
And  heaven  puts  on  the  blue  of  May. 

Then  sing  aloud  the  g^ushing  rills 

And  the  full  springs,  from  frost  set  free. 

That,  brightly  leaping  down  the  hilb. 
Are  just  set  out  to  meet  the  sea. 

The  years  departing  beauty  hides 
Of  wintry  storms  the  sullen  threat  : 

But  in  thy  sternest  frown  abides 
A  look  of  kindly  promise  yet. 

Thou  bring'st  the  hope  of  those  calm  skies 
And  that  soft  time  of  sunny  showers. 

When  the  wide  bloom,  on  earth  that  lies, 
Seems  of  a  brighter  world  than  ours. 

William  Cullen  BRVAffT. 


BEAUTIES   OF   NATURE. 


115 


THEY  COME  !  THE  MERRY  SUMMER 
MONTHS. 

'HEY  come  !    the  merry  summer  months  of 
beauty,  song  and  flowers  ; 
They  come  !  the  gladsome  months  that  bring 
■^  thick  Itrafiness  to  bowers. 

Up,  up,  my  heart !  and  walk  abroad  ;  fling  cark  and 

care  aside ; 
Seek  silent  hills,  or  rest  thyself  where  peaceful  waters 

glide ; 
Or,    underneath   the     shadows   vast   of  patriarchal 

tree. 
Scan  through  its  leaves  the  cloudless  sky  in  rapt  tran- 
quility. 

The  grass  is  soft,  its  velvet  touch  is  grateful  to  the 
hand ; 

And,  like  the  kiss  of  maiden  love,  the  breeze  is  sweet 
and  bland  ; 

The  daisy  and  the  buttercup  are  nodding  courte- 
ously ; 

It  stirs  their  blood  with  kindest  love,  to  bless  and  wel- 
come thee  : 

And  mark  how  with  thine  own  thin  locks — they  now 
are  silvery  gray — 

That  blissful  breeze  is  wantoning,  and  whispering, 
"  Be  gay  !" 

There  is  no  cloud  that  sails  along  the  ocean  of  yon  sky 
But  hath  its  own  wing'd  mariners  to  give  it  melody  : 
Thou  seest  their  glittering  fans  outspread,  all  gleaming 

like  red  gold ; 
And  hark  !  with  shrill  pipe  musical,  their  merry  course 

they  hold. 
God  bless  them  all,  those  little  ones,  who,  far  above 

this  earth. 
Can  make  a  scoff  of  its  mean  joys,  and  vent  a  nobler 

mirth. 

Good  Lord !  it  is  a  gracious  boon  for  thought-crazed 
wight  like  me. 

To  smell  again  these  summer  flowers  beneath  this  sum- 
mer tree ! 

To  sack  once  more  in  every  breath  their  little  souls 
away. 

And  feed  my  fancy  with  fond  dreams  of  youth's  bright 
summer  day, 

'^^en,  rushing  forth  like  untamed  colt,  the  reckless, 
truant  boy 

"Wandered  through  greenwoods  all  day  long,  a  mighty 
heart  of  joy ! 

I'm  sadder  now — I  have  had  cause  ;  but  O  !  I'm  proud 
to  think 

That  each  pure  joy-fount,  loved  of  yore,  I  yet  delight  to 
drink ; — 

Leaf,  blossom,  blade,  hill,  valley,  stream,  the  calm,  un- 
clouded sky, 


Still  mingle  music  with  my  dreams,  as  in  the  days  gone 

by. 
When  summer's  loveliness  and  light  fall  round  me  dark 

and  cold, 
I'll  bear  indeed  life's  heaviest  curse— a  heart  that  bath 

waxed  old ! 

William  Motherwell. 


llJ 


APRIL 

HEN  the  warm  sun,  that  brings 
Seed-time  and  harvest,  has  returned  again, 
'Tis  sweet  to  visit  the  still   wood,   where 
springs 
The  first  flower  of  the  plain. 


I  love  the  season  well. 
When  forest  glades  are  teeming  with  bright  forms. 
Nor  dark  and  many-folded  clouds  foretell 

The  coming-in  of  storms. 

From  the  earth's  loosened  mould 
The  sapling  draws  its  sustenance,  and  thrives  : 
Thougli  stricken  to  the  heart  with  winter's  cold. 

The  drooping  tree  revives. 

The  softly-warbled  song 
Comes  through  the  pleasant  woods,  and  colored  wiags 
Are  glancing  in  the  golden  sun,  along 

The  forest  openings. 

And  when  bright  sunset  fills 
The  silvery  woods  with  light,  the  green  slope  throws 
Its  shadows  in  the  hollows  of  the  hills. 

And  wide  the  upland  glows. 

And  when  the  day  is  gone, 
In  the  blue  lake,  the  sky,  o'erreaching  far. 
Is  hollowed  out,  and  the  moon  dips  her  horn, 

And  twinkles  many  a  star. 

Inverted  in  the  tide 
Stand  the  gray  rocks,  and  trembling  shadows  throw, 
And  the  fair  trees  look  over,  side  by  side. 

And  see  themselves  below. 

Sweet  April,  many  a  thought 
Is  wedded  unto  thee,  as  hearts  are  wed  ; 
Nor  shall  they  fail,  till,  to  its  autumn  brought. 

Life's  golden  fruit  is  shed. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


n 


THE  VERNAL  SEASON. 

OW  let  me  sit  beneath  the  whitening  thorn. 
And  mark  thy  spreading  tints  steal  o'er  the 
dale ; 

And  watch  with  patient  eye 
Thy  fair  unfolding  charms. 


O  nymph,  approach  !  while  yet  the  temperate  sun 
With  bashful  forehead,  through  tlie  cool  moLst  air 


116 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


Throws  his  young  maiden  beams, 
And  with  chaste  kisses  woos 

The  earth's  fair  bosom  ;  while  the  streaming  veil 
Of  lucid  clouds,  with  kind  and  frequent  shade, 

Protects  thy  modest  blooms 

From  his  severer  blaze. 

Sweet  is  thy  reign,  but  short :  the  red  dog-star 
Shall  scorch  thy  tresses,  and  the  mower"  s  scythe 

Thy  greens,  thy  flowerets  all. 

Remorseless  shall  destroy. 

Reluctant  shall  I  bid  thee  then  farewell ; 
For  O  !  not  all  that  autumn's  lap  contains, 

Nor  summer's  ruddiest  fruits, 

Can  aught  for  thee  atone. 

Fair  spring !  whose  simplest  promise  more  delights 
Then  all  their  largest  wealth,  and  through  the  heart 

Each  joy  and  new-born  hope 

With  softest  influence  breathes. 

Anna  L.  Barbauld. 


THE  WATER!    THE  WATER! 

'  HE  water  !  the  water ! 

The  joyous  brook  for  me, 
That  tuneth  through  the  quiet  night 

Its  ever-living  glee. 
The  water  !  the  water  ! 

That  sleepless,  merry*  heart, 
Which  gurgles  on  unstintedly, 

And  loveth  to  impart 
To  all  around  it,  some  small  measure 
Of  its  own  most  perfect  pleasure. 

The  water !  the  water ! 

The  gentle  stream  for  me, 
That  gushes  from  the  old  gray  stone 

Beside  the  alder-tree. 
The  water  !  the  water ! 

That  ever-bubbling  spring 
I  loved  and  looked  on  while  a  child, 

In  deepest  wondering — 
And  asked  it  whence  it  came  and  went. 
And  when  its  treasures  would  be  spent. 

The  water !  the  water ! 

Where  I  have  shed  salt  tears, 
In  loneliness  and  friendliness, 

A  thing  of  tender  years. 
The  water !  the  water  ! 

Where  I  have  happy  been, 
And  showered  upon  its  bosom  flowers 

Culled  from  each  meadow  green  ; 
And  idly  hoped  my  life  would  be 
So  crowned  by  love's  idolatry. 

The  water !  the  water  ! 

My  heart  yet  burns  to  think 
How  cool  thy  fountain  sparkled  forth. 


For  parched  lip  to  drink. 
The  water  !  the  water  ! 

Of  mine  own  native  glen — 
The  gladsome  tongue  I  oft  have  heard, 

But  ne'er  shall  hear  again, 
Though  fancy  fills  my  ear  for  aye 
With  sounds  that  live  so  far  away ! 

The  water !  the  water  ! 

The  mild  and  glassy  wave, 
Upon  whose  broomy  banks  I've  longed 

To  find  my  silent  grave. 
The  water !  the  water ! 

O,  blest  to  me  thou  art ! 
Thus  sounding  in  life's  solitude 

The  music  of  my  heart. 
And  filling  it,  despite  of  sadness. 
With  dreamings  of  departed  gladness. 

The  water  !  the  water  ! 

The  mournful,  pensive  tone 
That  whispered  to  my  heart  how  soon 

This  weary  life  was  done. 
The  water !  the  water  ! 

That  rolled  so  bright  and  free. 
And  bade  me  mark  how  beautiful 

Was  its  soul's  purity  ; 
And  how  it  glanced  to  heaven  its  wave, 
As  wandering  on,  it  sought  its  grave. 

William  Motherwell. 


MAY. 


FEEL  a  newer  life  in  every  gale  •, 
The  winds  that  fan  the  flowers. 
And  with  their  welcome  breathings  fill  the  sail, 
Tell  of  serener  hours — 
Of  hours  that  glide  unfelt  away 
Beneath  the  sky  of  May. 

The  spirit  of  the  gentle  south-wind  calls 

From  his  blue  throne  of  air, 
And  where  his  whispering  voice  in  music  falls. 
Beauty  is  budding  there ; 
The  bright  ones  of  the  valley  break 
Their  slumbers,  and  awake. 

The  waving  verdure  rolls  along  the  plain, 

And  the  wide  forest  weaves. 
To  welcome  back  its  playful  mates  again, 
A  canopy  of  leaves , 
And  from  its  darkening  shadows  floats 
A  gush  of  trembling  notes. 

Fairer  and  brighter  spreads  the  reign  of  May ; 

The  tresses  of  the  woods, 
With  the  light  dallying  of  the  west-wind  play  ; 
And  the  full-brimming  floods. 
As  gladly  to  their  goal  they  run, 
Hail  the  returning  sun. 

James  G.  Percival. 


BEAUTIES  OF  NATURE. 


117 


THE  SUMMER. 

'  N  all  places,  then,  and  in  all  seasons, 

Flowers  expand  their  light  and  soul-like  wings. 
Teaching  us,  by  the  most  persuasive  reasons, 

How  akin  they  are  to  human  things. 
And  with  childHke,  credulous  affection, 
We  behold  their  tender  buds  expand. 
Emblems  of  our  own  great  resurrection. 
Emblems  of  the  bright  and  better  land. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


THE  MIDNIGHT  WIND. 

OURNFULLY!  O,  mournfully 
This  midnight  wind  doth  sigh, 
Like  some  sweet,  plaintive  melody 
Of  ages  long  gone  by  ! 
It  speaks  a  tale  of  other  years. 

Of  hopes  that  bloomed  to  die. 
Of  sunny  smiles  that  set  in  tears, 
And  loves  that  mouldering  lie  ! 

Mournfully !  O,  mournfully 

This  midnight  wind  doth  moan  ! 
It  stirs  some  chord  of  memory 

In  each  dull,  heavy  tone  ; 
The  voices  of  the  much-loved  dead 

Seem  floating  thereupon — 
All,  all  my  fond  heart  cherished 

Ere  death  had  made  it  lone. 

Mournfully  !  O,  mournfully 

This  midnight  wind  doth  swell 
With  its  quaint,  pensive  minstrelsy — 

Hope's  passionate  farewell 
To  the  dreamy  joys  of  early  years. 

Ere  yet  griefs  canker  fell 
On  the  heart's  bloom — ay  !  well  may  tears 

Start  at  that  parting  knell ! 

William  Motherwell. 


WILD  FLOWERS. 

I EAUTIFUL  flowers  !  to  me  ye  fresher  seem 
From  the  Almighty  hand  that  fashioned  all, 
Than  those  that  flourish  by  a  garden-wall ; 
And  I  can  image  you  as  in  a  dream, 
Fair,  modest  maidens,  nursed  in  hamlets  small : — 

I  love  ye  all ! 

Beautiful  gems  !  that  on  the  brow  of  earth 

Are  fixed,  as  in  a  queenly  diadem  ; 

Though  lowly  ye,  and  most  without  a  name. 
Young  hearts  rejoice  to  see  your  buds  come  forth. 

As  light  erewhile  into  the  world  came : — 

I  love  ye  all ! 

Beautiful  things  ye  are,  where'er  ye  grow  I 
The  wild  red  rose — the  speedwell's  peeping  eyes — 
Our  own  bluebell — the  daisy,  that  doth  rise 


Wherever  sunbeams  fall  or  winds  do  blow  ; 
And  thousands  more,  of  blessed  forms  and  dyes  : — 

I  love  ye  all ', 

Beautiful  nurslings  of  the  early  dew! 
Fanned  in  your  loveliness,  by  every  breeze. 
And  shaded  o'er  by  green  and  arching  trees  ; 

I  often  wish  that  I  were  one  of  you. 
Dwelling  afar  upon  the  grassy  leas  : — 

I  love  ye  all  1 

Beautiful  watchers  !  day  and  night  ye  wake  ! 
The  evening  star  grows  dim  and  fades  away, 
And  morning  comes  and  goes,  and  then  the  day 

Within  the  arms  of  night  its  rest  doth  take  ; 
But  ye  are  watchful  wheresoe'er  we  stray : — 

I  love  ye  all ! 

Beautiful  objects  of  the  wild-bee's  love  ! 
The  wild-bird  joys  your  opening  bloom  to  see, 
And  in  your  native  woods  and  wilds  to  be. 

All  hearts,  to  nature  true,  ye  strangely  move  ; 
Ye  are  so  passing  fair — so  passing  free : — 

I  love  ye  all ! 

Beautiful  children  of  the  glen  and  dell — 
The  dingle  deep — the  moorland  stretching  wide, 
And  of  the  mossy  mountain's  sedgy  side  ! 
Ye  o'er  my  heart  have  thrown  a  lovesome  spell ; 
And,  though  the  worldling,  scorning,  may  deride ; 

I  love  ye  all ! 
Robert  Nicoll. 


with 


TO  THE  DANDELION. 

EAR  common  flower,  that  grow'st  beside  the 
way. 
Fringing  the  dusty  road  with  harmless  gold, 
First  pledge  of  blithesome  May, 
My   childhood's  earliest  thoughts  are  linked 

thee; 
The  sight  of  thee  calls  back  the  robin's  song 

Who,  from  the  dark  old  tree 
Beside  the  door,  sang  clearly  all  day  long. 

And  I,  secure  in  childish  piety. 
Listened  as  if  I  heard  an  angel  sing 

With  news  from  heaven,  which  he  did  bring 
Fresh  every  day  to  my  untainted  ears, 
When  birds  and  flowers  and  I  were  happy  peers. 

How  like  a  prodigal  doth  nature  seem. 
When  thou,  for  all  thy  gold,  so  common  art ! 

Thou  teachest  me  to  deem 
More  sacredly  of  every  human  heart. 

Since  each  reflects  in  joy  its  scanty  gleam 
Of  heaven,  and  could  some  wondrous  secret  show, 
Did  we  but  pay  the  love  we  owe, 
And  with  a  child's  undoubting  wisdom  look 
On  all  these  living  pages  of  God's  book. 

James  Russell  Lowell. 


118 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


THE  IVY  GREEN. 

H  !  a  dainty  plant  is  the  ivy  green, 
That  creepeth  o'er  ruins  old  ! 
On  right  choice  food  are  his  meals,  I  ween, 
In  his  cell  so  lone  and  cold. 
The  wall  must  be  crumbled,  the  stone  decayed, 

To  pleasure  his  dainty  whim  ; 
And  the  mouldering  dust  that  years  have  made. 
Is  a  merry  meal  for  him. 

Creeping  where  no  life  is  seen, 
A  rare  old  plant  is  the  ivy  green. 

Fast  he  stealeth  on  though  he  wears  no  wings. 

And  a  staunch  old  heart  has  he  ; 
How  closely  he  twineth,  how  close  he  clings. 

To  his  friend  the  huge  oak  tree  ! 
And  slily  he  traileth  along  the  ground, 

And  his  leaves  he  gently  waves. 
As  he  joyously  hugs  and  crawleth  round 

The  rich  mould  of  dead  men's  graves. 
Creeping  where  grim  death  has  been, 
A  rare  old  plant  is  the  ivy  green. 

Whole  ages  have  fled,  and  their  works  decayed, 

And  nations  have  scattered  been  ; 
But  tlie  stout  old  ivy  shall  never  fade 

From  its  hale  and  hearty  green. 
The  brave  old  plant  in  its  lonely  days 

Shall  fatten  on  the  past : 
For  the  statliest  building  man  can  raise 
Is  the  ivy's  food  at  last. 

Creeping  on  where  time  has  been, 
A  rare  old  plant  is  the  ivy  green  ! 

Charles  Dickens. 


TO  A  DAISY. 

'HERE  is  a  flower,  a  little  flower 
With  silver  crest  and  golden  eye, 
That  welcomes  every  changing  hour, 
*^        And  weathers  every  sky. 

The  prouder  beauties  of  the  field. 
In  gay  but  quick  succession  shine  ; 
Race  after  race  their  honors  yield. 
They  flourish  and  decline. 

But  this  small  flower,  to  nature  dear, 
While  moons  and  stars  their  courses  run, 
Enwreathes  the  circle  of  the  year. 
Companion  of  the  sun. 

The  purple  heath  and  golden  broom, 
On  moory  mountains  catch  the  gale  ; 
O'er  lawns  the  lily  sheds  perfume. 
The  violet  in  the  vale. 

But  this  bcJd  floweret  climbs  the  hill, 
Hides  in  the  forest,  haunts  the  glen, 
Plays  on  the  margin  of  the  rill. 
Peeps  round  the  fox's  den. 


Within  the  garden's  cultured  round 
It  shares  the  sweet  carnation's  bed  ; 
And  blooms  on  consecrated  ground 
In  honor  of  the  dead. 

The  lambkin  crops  its  crimson  gem  ; 
The  wild  bee  murmurs  on  its  breast ; 
The  blue-fly  bends  its  pensile  stem, 
Light  o'er  the  skylark's  nest. 

'Tis  Flora's  page — in  every  place, 
In  every  season,  fresh  and  fair ; 
It  opens  with  perennial  grace. 
And  blossoms  everywhere. 

On  waste  and  woodland,  rock  and  plain. 
Its  humble  buds  unheeded  rise  : 
The  rose  has  but  a  summer  reign  ; 
The  daisy  never  dies  ! 

James  Montgomery. 


THE  CHANGING  WORLD. 

WRITTEN  WHILE  A   PRISONER   IN   PINGLAND. 

HE  time  hath  laid  his  mantle  by 
Of  wind  and  rain  and  icy  chill, 
And  dons  a  rich  embroidery 

Of  sunlight  poured  on  lake  and  hill. 
No  beast  or  bird  in  earth  or  sky, 

Whose  voice  doth  not  with  gladness  thrill. 
For  time  hath  laid  his  mantle  by 
Of  wind  and  rain  and  icy  chill. 

River  and  fountain,  brook  and  rill. 
Bespangled  o'er  with  livery  gay 
Of  silver  droplets,  wind  their  way. 
All  in  their  new  apparel  vie. 
For  time  hath  laid  his  mantle  by. 

Charles  of  Orleans. 


S|f 


ON  A  SPRIG  OF  HEATH. 

LOWER  of  the  waste  !  the  heath  fowl  shuns 
For  thee  the  brake  and  tangled  wood — 
To  thy  protecting  shade  she  runs. 
Thy  tender  buds  supply  her  food  ; 
Her  young  forsake  her  downy  plumes, 
To  rest  upon  thy  opening  blooms. 

Flower  of  the  desert  though  thou  art ! 

The  deer  that  range  the  mountam  free. 
The  graceful  doe,  the  stately  hart. 

Their  food  and  shelter  seek  from  thee  ; 
The  bee  thy  earliest  blossom  greets. 
And  draws  from  thee  her  choicest  sweets. 

Gem  of  the  heath  !  whose  modest  bloom 
Sheds  beauty  o'er  the  lonely  moor ; 

Though  thou  dispense  no  rich  perfume. 
Nor  yet  with  splendid  tints  allure. 

Both  valor's  crest  and  beauty's  bower 

Oft  has  thou  decked,  a  favorite  flower. 


BEAUTIES  OF  NATURE. 


119 


Flower  of  the  wild  !  whose  purple  glow 
Adorns  the  dusky  mountain's  side, 

Not  the  gay  hues  of  Iris'  bow, 
Nor  garden's  artful  varied  pride, 

With  all  its  wealth  of  sweets  could  cheer, 

Like  thee,  the  hardy  mountaineer. 

Flower  of  his  heart !  thy  fragrance  mild 
Of  peace  and  freedom  seem  to  breathe ; 

To  pluck  thy  blossoms  in  the  wild. 
And  deck  his  bonnet  with  the  wreath, 

Where  dwelt  of  old  his  rustic  sires, 

Is  all  his  simple  wish  requires. 

Flower  of  his  dear-loved  native  land  ! 

Alas,  when  distant  far  more  dear  ! 
When  he  from  some  cold  foreign  strand, 

Looks  homeward  through  the  blinding  tear. 
How  must  his  aching  heart  deplore. 
That  home  and  thee  he  sees  no  more  ! 

Marian  Grant. 


llJ 


WILLOW  SONG. 

ILLOW  !  in  thy  breezy  moan 
I  can  hear  a  deeper  tone  ; 
Through  thy  leaves  come  whispering  low 
Faint  sweet  sounds  of  long  ago — 

Willow,  sighing  willow ! 

Many  a  mournful  tale  of  old 
Heart-sick  love  to  thee  hath  told. 
Gathering  from  thy  golden  bough 
Leaves  to  cool  his  burning  brow — 

Willow,  sighing  willow ! 

Many  a  swan-like  song  to  thee 
Hath  been  sung,  thou  gentle  tree  ; 
Many  a  lute  its  last  lament 
Down  thy  moonlight  stream  hath  sent — 
Willow,  sighing  willow  ! 

Therefore,  wave  and  murmur  on, 
Sigh  for  sweet  affections  gone, 
And  for  tuneful  voices  fled, 
And  for  love,  whose  heart  hath  bled, 

Ever,  willow,  willow ! 
Felicia  Dorothea  Hemans. 


THE  WANDERING  WIND, 

'HE  wind,  the  wandering  wind 

Of  the  golden  summer  eves — 
Whence  is  the  thrilling  magic 

Of  its  tones  amongst  the  leaves  ? 
Oh  !  is  it  from  the  waters, 

Or  from  the  long,  tall  grass  ? 
Or  is  it  from  the  hollow  rocks 

Through  which  its  breathings  pass? 
Or  is  it  from  the  voices 

Of  all  in  one  combined. 
That  it  wins  the  tone  of  mastery ! 

The  wind,  the  wandering  wind  ! 


No,  no !  the  strange,  sweet  accents 

That  with  it  come  and  go, 
They  are  not  from  the  osiers, 

Nor  the  fir-trees  whispering  low. 

They  are  not  of  the  waters, 

Nor  of  the  caverned  hill ; 
'Tis  the  human  love  within  us 

That  gives  them  power  to  thrill ; 
They  touch  the  links  of  memory 

Around  our  spirits  twined, 
And  we  start,  and  weep,  and  tremble, 

To  the  wind,  the  wandering  wind  ! 

Felicia  Dorothea  Hemans. 


THE  ROSE. 

'OW  fair  is  the  rose  !  that  beautiful  flower. 
The  glory  of  April  and  May  ; 
But  the  leaves  are  beginning  to  fade  in  an  hour, 
And  they  wither  and  die  in  a  day. 

Yet  the  rose  has  one  powerful  virtue  to  boast. 

Above  all  the  flowers  of  the  field  ; 
When  its  leaves  are  all  dead,  and  its  fine  colors  lost. 

Still  how  sweet  a  perfume  it  will  yield  ! 

So  frail  is  the  youth  and  the  beauty  of  men. 
Though  they  bloom  and  look  gay  like  the  rose  ; 

But  all  our  fond  care  to  preserve  tliem  is  vain, 
Time  kills  them  as  fast  as  he  goes. 

Then  I'll  not  be  proud  of  my  youth  nor  my  beauty, 

Since  botli  of  them  wither  and  fade  ; 
But  gain  a  good  name  by  well-doing  my  duty  ; 

This  will  scent  like  a  rose  when  I'm  dead. 

Isaac  Watts. 


llJ 


CHORUS  OF  FLOWERS 

E  are  the  sweet  flowers, 

Born  of  sunny  showers, 
(Think,  whene'er  you    see  us,  what 
beauty  saith  ;) 


oiw 


Utterance  mute  and  bright. 

Of  some  unknown  delight, 
We  fill  the  air  with  pleasure,  by  our  simple  breath  : 

All  who  see  us  love  us — 

We  befit  all  places ; 
Unto  sorrow  we  give  smiles — and  unto  graces,  graces- 

Who  shall  say  that  flowers 
Dress  not  heaven's  own  bowers  ? 
Who  its  love  without  us,  can  fancy — or  sweet  floor? 
Who  shall  even  dare 
To  say  we  sprang  not  there — 
And  came  not  down,  the  Lord  might  bring  one  piece 
of  heaven  the  more  ? 

O  !  pray  believe  that  angels 
From  those  blue  dominions 
Brought  us  in  their  white  laps  down,  'twixt  their  gol- 
den pinions. 

Leigh  Hunt. 


120 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


MAY  DAY. 

»HE  daisies  peep  from  every  field, 
And  violets  sweet  their  odor  yield  ; 
And  purple  blossom  paints  the  thorn, 
And  streams  reflect  the  blush  of  morn, 
Then  lads  and  lasses  all,  be  gay, 
For  this  is  nature's  holiday. 

Let  lusty  labor  drop  his  flail, 
Nor  woodman's  hook  a  tree  assail ; 
The  ox  shall  cease  its  neck  to  bow, 
And  Clodden  yield  to  rest  the  plough. 

Behold  the  lark  in  ether  float. 
While  rapture  swells  the  liquid  note  ! 
What  warbles  he,  with  merry  cheer  ? 
"  Let  love  and  pleasure  rule  the  year  !" 

Lo  !  Sol  looks  down  with  radiant  eye. 
And  throws  a  smile  around  his  sky  ; 
Embracing  hill,  and  vale,  and  stream. 
And  warming  nature  with  his  beam. 

The  insect  tribes  in  myraids  pour. 
And  kiss  with  zephyr  every  flower  ; 
Shall  these  our  icy  hearts  reprove. 
And  tell  us  what  are  foes  to  love  ? 
Then  lads  and  lasses  all,  be  gay, 
For  this  is  nature's  holiday. 

John  Wolcot. 


TO  THE  BRAMBLE  FLOWER. 

*HY  fruit  full  well  the  schoolboy  knows, 

Wild  bramble  of  the  brake  ! 
So  put  thou  forth  thy  small  white  rose  ; 

I  love  it  for  his  sake. 
Though  woodbines  flaunt  and  roses  glow 

O'er  all  the  fragrant  .bowers, 
Thou  need'st  not  be  ashamed  to  show 

Thy  satin-threaded  flowers ; 
For  dull  the  eye,  the  heart  is  dull. 

That  cannot  feel  how  fair, 
Amid  all  beauty  beautiful, 

Thy  tender  blossoms  are  ! 
How  delicate  thy  gauzy  frill ! 

How  rich  thy  branchy  stem  ! 
How  soft  thy  voice  when  woods  are  still. 

And. thou  sing'st  hymns  to  them  : 
When  silent  showers  are  falling  slow. 

And  'mid  the  general  hush, 
A  sweet  air  lifts  the  little  bough. 

Lone  whispering  through  the  bush ! 
The  primrose  to  the  grave  is  gone  ; 

The  hawthorn  flower  is  dead ; 
The  violet  by  the  mossd  grey  stone 

Hath  laid  her  weary  head  ; 


But  thou,  wild  bramble  !  back  dost  bring, 

In  all  their  beauteous  power. 
The  fresh  green  days  of  life's  fair  spring, 

And  boyhood's  blossomy  hour. 
Scorned  bramble  of  the  brake  1  once  more 

Thou  bidd'st  me  be  a  boy. 
To  gad  with  thee  the  woodlands  o'er. 

In  freedom  and  in  joy. 

Ebenezer  Elliott. 


(3 


A  DAY  IN  JUNE. 

ND  what  is  so  rare  as  a  day  in  June  ? 
Then,  if  ever,  come  perfect  days  ; 
Then  heaven  tries  the  earth  if  it  be  in  tune, 
And  over  it  softly  her  warm  ear  lays  : 
Wliether  we  look,  or  whether  we  listen, 
We  hear  life  murmur,  or  see  it  glisten  ; 
Every  clod  feels  a  stir  of  might, 

An  instinct  within  it  that  reaches  and  towers 
And,  groping  blindly  above  it  for  light, 

Climbs  to  a  soul  in  grass  and  flowers  ; 
The  flush  of  light  may  well  be  seen 

Thrilling  back  over  hills  and  valleys ; 
The  cowslip  startles  in  meadows  green, 

The  buttercup  catches  the  sun  in  its  chalice, 
And  there's  never  a  leaf  or  a  blade  too  mean 

To  be  some  happy  creature's  palace  ; 
The  little  bird  sits  at  his  door  in  the  sun, 

Atilt  like  a  blossom  among  the  leaves, 
And  lets  his  illumined  being  o'errun 

With  the  deluge  of  summer  it  receives  ; 
His  mate  feels  the  eggs  beneath  her  wings, 
And  the  heart  in  her  dumb  breast  flutters  and  sings  ; 
He  sings  to  the  wide  world,  and  she  to  her  nest — 
In  the  nice  ear  of  nature,  which  song  is  the  best? 
James  Russell  Lowell. 


THE  PRIMEVAL  FOREST. 

HIS  is  the  forest  primeval.    The  murmuring 
pines  and  hemlocks, 
Bearded  with  moss,  and  in  garments  green, 
"^  indistinct  in  the  twilight. 

Stand  like  Druids  of  old,  with  voices  sad  and  pro- 
phetic. 
Stand  like  harpers  hoar,  with  beards  that  rest  on  their 

bosoms. 
Loud  from  its  rocky  caverns,  the  deep  voiced  neigh- 
boring ocean 
Speaks,  and  in  accents  disconsolate  answers  the  wail 

of  the  forest. 
This  is  the  forest  primeval ;  but  where  are  the  hearts 

that  beneath  it 
Leaped  like  the  roe,  when  he  hears  in  the  woodland 
the  voice  of  the  huntsman  ? 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


BEAUTIES   OF   NATURE. 


121 


f|l 


TO  AN  EARLY    PRIMROSE. 

ILD  offspring  of  a  dark  and  sullen  sire  ! 
Whose  modest  form,  so  delicately  fine, 
Was  nursed  in  whirling  storms. 
And  cradled  in  the  winds. 


Thee,  when  young"spring  first  questioned  winter's  sway 
And  dared  the  sturdy  blusterer  to  the  fight, 
Thee  on  this  bank  he  threw 
To  mark  his  victory. 

In  this  low  vale,  the  promise  of  the  year, 
Serene,  thou  openest  to  the  nipping  gale, 

Unnoticed  and  alone. 

Thy  tender  elegance. 

So  virtue  blooms,  brought  forth  amid  the  storms 
Of  chill  adversity ;  in  some  lone  walk 

Of  life  she  rears  her  head. 

Obscure  and  unobserved ; 

While  every  bleaching  breeze  that  on  her  blows, 
Chastens  her  spotless  purity  of  breast. 

And  hardens  her  to  bear 

Serene  the  ills  of  life. 

Harry  Kirke  White. 


THE  LILY. 

*OW  withered,  perished  seems  the  form 
Of  yon  obscure  unsightly  root ! 
Yet  from  the  blight  of  wintry  storm. 
It  hides  secure  the  precious  fruit. 

The  careless  eye  can  find  no  grace. 

No  beauty  in  the  scaly  folds, 
Nor  see  within  the  dark  embrace 

What  latent  loveliness  it  holds. 

Yet  in  that  bulb,  those  sapless  scales, 

The  lily  wraps  her  silver  vest, 
Till  vernal  suns  and  vernal  gales 

Shall  kiss  once  more  her  fragrant  breast. 

Yes,  hide  beneath  the  mouldering  heap 
The  undelighting  slighted  thing  ; 

There  in  the  cold  earth  buried  deep, 
In  silence  let  it  wait  the  spring. 

Oh !  many  a  stormy  night  shall  close 
In  gloom  upon  the  barren  earth, 

While  still,  in  undisturbed  repose. 
Uninjured  lies  the  future  birth. 

Sweet  smile  of  hope,  delicious  tear ! 

The  sun,  the  shower  indeed  shall  come. 
The  promised  verdant  shoot  appear, 

And  nature  bid  her  blossoms  bloom. 

And  thou,  O  virgin  queen  of  spring ! 

Shalt,  from  thy  dark  and  lowly  bed, 
Bursting  thy  green  sheath's  s.ilken  string, 

Unveil  thy  charms  and  perfume  shed  ; 


Unfold  thy  robes  of  purest  white. 
Unsullied  from  their  darksome  grave, 

And  thy  soft  petals'  silvery  light 
In  the  mild  breeze  unfettered  wave. 

So  faith  shall  seek  the  lowly  dust 
Where  humble  sorrow  loves  to  lie. 

And  bid  her  thus  her  hopes  intrust. 
And  watch  with  patient,  cheerful  eye ; 

And  bear  the  long,  cold  wintry  night. 
And  bear  her  own  degraded  doom ; 

And  wait  till  heaven's  reviving  light. 
Eternal  spring  !  shall  burst  the  gloom. 

Mary  Tighe. 


(3 


THE  BRAVE  OLD  OAK. 

SONG  to  the  oak,  the  brave  old  oak, 

W^ho  hath  ruled  in  the  greenwood  long  ; 
Here's  health  and  renown  to  his  broad  green 
crown. 
And  his  fifty  arms  so  strong. 
There's  fear  in  his  frown  when  the  sun  goes  down, 

And  the  fire  in  the  west  fades  out ; 
And  he  showeth  his  might  on  a  wild  midnight, 
When  the  storms  through  his  branches  shout. 

Then  here's  to  the  oak,  the  brave  old  oak, 

Who  stands  in  his  pride  alone  ; 
And  still  flourish  he,  a  hale  green  tree, 

When  a  hundred  years  are  gone  ! 

In  the  days  of  old,  when  the  spring  with  cold 

Had  brightened  his  branches  gray. 
Through  the  grass  at  his  feet  crept  maidens  sweet. 

To  gather  the  dew  of  May. 
And  on  that  day  to  the  rebeck  gay 

They  frolicked  with  lovesome  swains  ; 
They  are  gone,  they  are  dead,  in  the  churchyard  laid. 

But  the  tree  it  still  remains. 

He  saw  the  rare  times  when  the  Christmas  chimes 

Were  a  merry  sound  to  hear, 
When  the  squire's  wide  hall  and  the  cottage  small 

Were  filled  with  good  English  cheer. 
Now  gold  hath  the  sway  we  all  obey, 

And  a  ruthless  king  is  he  ; 
But  he  never  shall  send  our  ancient  friend 

To  be  tossed  on  the  stormy  sea. 

Henry  Fothergill  Chorley. 


THE  CLOUD. 

BRING  fresh  showers  for  the  thirsting  flowers. 
From  the  seas  and  the  streams ; 
I  bear  light  shade  for  the  leaves  when  laid 
In  their  noonday  dreams. 
From  my  wings  are  shaken  the  dews  that  waken 

The  sweet  birds  every  one. 
When  rocked  to  rest  on  their  mother's  breast, 
As  she  dances  about  the  sun. 


122 


CROWN   JEWELS. 


I  wield  the  flail  of  the  lashing  hail, 

And  whiten  the  green  plains  under  ; 
And  then  again  I  dissolve  it  in  rain, 

And  laugh  as  I  pass  in  thunder. 

I  sift  the  snow  on  the  mountains  below, 

And  their  great  pines  grown  aghast ; 
And  all  the  night  'tis  my  pillow  white, 

While  I  sleep  in  the  arms  of  the  blast. 
Sublime  on  the  towers  of  my  skyey  bowers, 

Lightning,  my  pilot,  sits ; 
In  a  cavern  under  is  fettered  the  thunder, 

It  struggles  and  howls  at  fits  ; 
Over  earth  and  ocean,  with  gentle  motion, 

This  pilot  is  guiding  me. 
Lured  by  the  love  of  the  genii  that  move 

In  the  depths  of  the  purple  sea  ; 
Over  the  rills,  and  the  crags,  and  the  hills, 

Over  the  lakes  and  the  plains, 
Wherever  he  dream,  under  mountain  or  stream. 

The  spirit  he  loves,  remains  ; 
And  I  all  the  while  bask  in  heaven's  blue  smile, 

Whilst  he  is  dissolving  in  rains. 

The  sanguine  sunrise,  with  his  meteor  eyes, 

And  his  burning  plumes  outspread, 
Leaps  on  the  back  of  my  sailing  rack 

When  the  morning  star  shines  dead. 
As  on  the  jag  of  a  mountain  crag, 

Which  an  earthquake  rocks  and  swings, 
An  eagle  alit,  one  moment  may  sit 

In  the  light  of  its  golden  wings  ; 
And  when  sunset  may  breathe  from  the  lit  sea  be- 
neath, 

Its  ardors  of  rest  and  of  love. 
And  the  crimson  pall  of  eve  may  fall 

From  the  depth  of  heaven  above. 
With  wings  folded  I  rest  on  mine  airy  nest. 

As  still  as  a  brooding  dove. 

That  orbed  maiden  with  white  fire  laden, 

Whom  mortals  call  the  moon. 
Glides  glimmering  o'er  my  fleece-like  floor, 

By  the  midnight  breezes  strewn  ; 
And  wherever  the  beat  of  her  unseen  feet, 

Which  only  the  angels  hear. 
May  have  broken  the  woof  of  my  tent's  thin  roof, 

The  stars  peep  behind  her  and  peer  ; 
And  I  laugh  to  see  them  whirl  and  flee, 

Like  a  swarm  of  golden  bees. 
When  I  widen  the  rent  in  my  wind-built  tent, 

Till  the  calm  river,  lakes,  and  seas, 
Like  strips  of  the  sky  fallen  through  me  on  high, 

Are  each  paved  with  the  moon  and  thee. 

I  bind  the  sun's  throng  with  a  burning  zone, 
And  the  moon's  with  a  girdle  of  pearl ; 

The  volcanoes  are  dim,  and  the  stars  reel  and  swim, 
When  the  whirlwinds  my  banner  unfurl. 

From  cape  to  cape,  with  a  bridge-like  shape, 
Over  a  torrent  sea, 


Sunbeam  proof,  I  hang  like  a  roof, 

The  mountains  its  columns  be. 
The  triumphal  arch  through  which  I  march, 

With  hurricane,  fire,  and  snow. 
When  the  powers  of  the  air  are  chained  to  my  chair, 

Is  the  million-colored  bow  ; 
The  sphere-fire  above,  its  soft  colors  wove. 

While  the  moist  earth  was  laughing  below. 

I  am  the  daughter  of  the  earth  and  water. 

And  the  nursling  of  the  sky  ; 
I  pass  through  the  pores  of  the  ocean  and  shores  • 

I  change,  but  I  cannot  die. 
For  after  the  rain,  when,  with  never  a  stain, 

The  pavilion  of  heaven  is  bare. 
And    the  winds  and    sunbeams,  with  their  convex 
gleams. 

Build  up  the  blue  dome  of  air, 
I  silently  laugh  at  my  own  cenotaph. 

And  out  of  the  caverns  of  rain, 
Like  a  child  from  the  womb,  like  a  ghost  from  the 
tomb, 

I  rise  and  upbuild  it  again. 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley. 


COME  TO  THESE  SCENES  OF  PEACE. 


© 


OME  to  these  scenes  of  peace. 
Where,  to  rivers  murmuring. 
The  sweet  birds  all  the  summer  sing, 
Where  cares,  and  toil,  and  sadness  cease 
Stranger,  does  thy  heart  deplore 
Friends  whom  thou  wilt  see  no  more  ? 
Does  thy  wounded  spirit  prove 
Pangs  of  hopeless  severed  love? 
Thee,  the  stream  that  gushes  clear — 
Thee,  the  birds  that  carol  near 
Shall  soothe,  as  silent  thou  dost  lie 
And  dream  of  their  wild  lullaby  ; 
Come  to  bless  these  scenes  of  peace. 
Where  cares,  and  toil,  and  sadness  cease. 
William  Lisle  Bowles. 


© 


SONG  OF  THE  SUMMER  WINDS. 

OWN  the  glen,  across  the  mountain, 
O'er  the  yellow  heath  we  roam. 
Whirling  round  about  the  fountain. 
Till  its  little  breakers  foam. 

Bending  down  the  weeping  willows. 
While  our  vesper  hymn  we  sigh  ; 

Then  unto  our  rosy  pillows 
On  our  weary  wings  we  hie. 

There  of  idlenesses  dreaming, 
Scarce  from  waking  we  refrain. 

Moments  long  as  ages  deeming 
Till  we're  at  our  play  again. 

George  Darley. 


BEAUTIES   OF   NATURE. 


123 


DAFFODILS, 

WANDERED  lonely  as  a  cloud 

That  floats  on  high  o'er  vales  and  hills, 
When  all  at  once  I  saw  a  crowd — 

A  host  of  golden  daffodils 
Beside  the  lake,  beneath  the  trees, 
Fluttering  and  dancing  in  the  breeze. 

Continuous  as  the  stars  that  shine 

And  twinkle  on  the  Milky  Way, 
They  stretched  in  never-ending  line 

Along  the  margin  of  a  bay  : 
Ten  thousand  saw  I,  at  a  glance, 
Tossing  their  heads  in  sprightly  dance. 

The  waves  beside  them  danced,  but  they 
Outdid  the  sparkling  waves  in  glee  ; 

A  poet  could  not  but  be  gay 
In  such  a  jocund  company  ; 

I  gazed — and  gazed — but  little  thought 

What  wealth  the  show  to  me  had  brought. 

For  oft,  when  on  my  couch  I  lie, 

In  vacant  or  in  pensive  mood, 

They  flash  upon  that  inward  eye 

Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude  ; 

And  then  my  heart  with  pleasure  fills, 

And  dances  with  the  daffodils. 

William  Wordsworth. 


© 


HYMN  TO  THE  FLOWERS. 

AY-STARS !  that  ope  your  eyes  with  morn  to 
twinkle 
From  rainbow  galaxies  of  earth's  creation, 
And  dew-drops  on  her  lonely  altars  sprinkle 
As  a  libation ! 


Ye  matin  worshippers  !  who  bending  lowly 

Before  the  uprisen  sun — God's  lidless  eye — 
Throw  from  your  chalices  a  sweet  and  holy 
Incense  on  high ! 

'Neath  cloistered  boughs,  each  floral  bell  that  swingeth 

And  tolls  its  perfume  on  the  passing  air, 
Makes  Sabbath  in  the  fields,  and  ever  ringeth 
A  call  to  prayer. 

Not  to  the  domes  where  crumbling  arch  and  column 

Attest  the  feebleness  of  mortal  hand, 
But  to  that  fane,  most  catholic  and  solemn, 

Which  God  hath  planned , 

To  that  cathedral,  boundless  as  our  wonder, 

Whose  quenchless  lamps  the  sun  and  moon  supply — 
Its  choir  the  winds  and  waves,  its  organ  thunder, 
Its  dome  the  sky. 

There — as  in  solitude  and  shade  I  wander 

Througii  the  green  aisles,  or,  stretched  upon  the  sod, 
Awed  by  the  silence,  reverently  ponder 

The  ways  of  God — 


Your  voiceless  lips,  O  flowers,  are  living  preachers, 

E^ch  cup  a  pulpit,  and  each  leaf  a  book, 
Supplying  to  my  fancy  numerous  teachers. 

From  loneliest  nook. 

Floral  apostles  !  that  in  dewy  splendor 

"  Weep  without  woe,  and  blush  without  a  crime," 
O  may  I  deeply  learn,  and  ne'er  surrender 
Your  lore  sublime ! 

"  Thou  wert  not,  Solomon  !  in  all  thy  glory, 

Arrayed,"  the  lilies  cry,  "m  robes  like  ours  ; 
How  vain  your  grandeur  !  ah,  how  transitory 

Are  human  flowers  !" 

In  the  sweet-scented  pictures,  heavenly  artist ! 

With  which  thou  paintest  nature's  wide-spread  hall. 
What  a  delightful  lesson  thou  impartest 
Of  love  to  all. 

Not  useless  are  ye,  flowers  !  though  made  for  pleasure  ; 

Blooming  o'er  field  and  wave,  by  day  and  night. 
From  every  source  your  sanction  bids  me  treasure 
Harmless  delight. 

Ephemeral  sages  !  what  instructors  hoary 

For  such  a  world  of  thought  could  furnish  scope? 
Each  fading  calyx  a  memento  ntori, 

Yet  fount  of  hope. 

Posthumous  glories  !  angel-like  collection  ! 

Upraised  from  seed  or  bulb  interred  in  earth, 
Ye  are  to  me  a  type  of  resurrection. 

And  second  birth. 

Were  I,  O  God,  in  churchless  lands  remaining, 

Far  from  all  voice  of  teachers  or  divines. 
My  soul  would  find,  in  flowers  of  thy  ordaining. 

Priests,  sermons,  shrines  ! 
Horace  Smith. 


AMERICAN  SKIES. 

'HE  sunny  Italy  may  boast 

The  beauteous  tints  that  flush  her  skies, 
And  lovely,  round  the  Grecian  coast, 
"f*  May  thy  blue  pillars  rise  : — 

I  only  know  how  fair  they  stand 
About  my  own  beloved  land. 

And  they  are  fair :  a  charm  is  theirs. 
That  earth— the  proud,  green  earth — has  not, 

With  all  the  hues,  and  forms,  and  airs, 
That  haunt  her  sweetest  spot. 

We  gaze  upon  thy  calm,  pure  sphere, 

And  read  of  heaven's  eternal  year. 

Oh  !  when,  amid  the  throng  of  men, 
The  heart  grows  sick  of  hollow  mirth. 

How  willingly  we  turn  us  then. 
Away  from  this  cold  earth, 

And  look  into  thy  azure  breast, 

For  seats  of  innocence  and  rest. 

V  William  Cullen  Bryant. 


124 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


FLOWERS— THE  GEMS  OF  NATURE. 

,  EMS  of  the  changing  autumn,  how  beautiful  ye 
are ! 
Shining  from  your  glossy  stems  like  many  a 
golden  star ; 

Peeping  through  the  long  grass,  smiling  on  the  down, 
Lighting  up  the  dusky  bank,  just  where  the  sun  goes 

down ; 
Yellow  flowers  of  autumn,  how  beautiful  ye  are  ! 
Shining  from  your  glossy  stems  like  many  a  golden. 

Thomas  Campbell. 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  ENGLISH  SCENERY. 

'AUNTS  of  my  youth! 

Scenes  of  fond  day-dreams,  I  behold  ye  yet ! 
Where   'twas  so  pleasant  by  thy  northern 
slopes, 

To  climb  the  winding  sheep-path,  aided  oft 
By  scattered  thorns,  whose  spiny  branches  bore 
Small  woolly  tufts,  spoils  of  the  vagrant  lamb, 
There  seeking  shelter  from  the  noon-day  sun  ; 
And  pleasant,  seated  on  the  short  soft  turf, 
To  look  beneath  upon  the  hollow  way. 
While  heavily  upward  moved  the  laboring  wain, 
And  stalking  slowly  by,  the  sturdy  hind. 
To  ease  his  panting  team,  stopped  with  a  stone 
The  grating  wheel. 

Advancing  higher  still, 
The  prospect  widens,  and  the  village  church 
But  little  o'er  the  lofty  roofs  around 
Rears  its  gray  belfry  and  its  simple  vane  ; 
Those  lowly  roofs  of  thatch  are  half  concealed 
By  the  rude  arms  of  trees,  lovely  in  spring  ; 
When  on  each  bough  the  rosy  tinctured  bloom 
Sits  thick,  and  promises  autumnal  plenty. 
For  even  those  orchards  round  the  Norman  farms, 
Which,  as  their  owners  marked  the  promised  fruit, 
Console  them,  for  the  vineyards  of  the  South 
Surpass  not  these. 

Where  woods  of  ash  and  beech, 
And  partial  copses  fringe  the  green  hill  foot, 
The  upland  shepherd  rears  his  modest  home  ; 
There  wanders  by  a  little  nameless  stream 
That  from  the  hill  wells  forth,  bright  now  and  clear, 
Or  after  rain  with  chalky  mixture  gray, 
But  still  refreshing  in  its  shallow  course 
The  cottage  garden  ;  most  for  use  designed, 
Yet  not  of  beauty  destitute.     The  vine 
Mantles  the  little  casement ,  yet  the  briar 
Drops  fragrant  dew  among  the  July  flowers  ; 
And  pansies  rayed,  and  freaked,  and  mottled  pinks, 
Grow  among  balm  and  rosemary  and  rue; 
There  honeysuckles  flaunt,  and  roses  blow 
Almost  uncultured ;  some  with  dark  green  leaves 
Contrast  their  flowers  of  pure  unsullied  white, 
Others  like  velvet  robes  of  regal  state 


Of  richest  crimson  ;  while,  in  thorny  moss 
Enshrined  and  cradled,  the  most  lovely  wear 
The  hues  of  youthful  beauty's  glowing  cheek. 
With  fond  regret  I  recollect  e'en  now 
In  spring  and  summer,  what  delight  I  felt 
Among  these  cottage  gardens,  and  how  much 
Such  artless  nosegays,  knotted  with  a  rush 
By  village  housewife  or  her  ruddy  maid. 
Were  welcome  to  me  ;  soon  and  simply  pleased. 
An  early  worshipper  at  nature's  shrine, 
I  loved  her  rudest  scenes — warrens,  and  heaths, 
And  yellow  commons,  and  birch-shaded  hollows. 
And  hedgerows  bordering  unfrequented  lanes, 
Bowered  with  wild  roses  and  the  clasping  woodbine. 

Charlotte  Smith. 


THE  GRAPE-VINE  SWING. 

yr^ITHE  and  long  as  the  serpent  train, 
'm'  I*        Springing  and  clinging  from  tree  to  tree, 
Ji^     Now  darting  upward,  now  down  again. 

With  a  twist  and  a  twirl  that  are  strange  to 
see ; 
Never  took  serpent  a  deadlier  hold, 
Never  the  cougar  a  wilder  spring, 
Strangling  the  oak  with  the  boa's  fold, 
Spanning  the  beach  with  the  condor's  wing. 

Yet  no  foe  that  we  fear  to  seek — 

The  boy  leaps  wild  to  thy  rude  embrace ; 
Thy  bulging  arms  bear  as  soft  a  cheek 

As  ever  on  lover's  breast  found  place; 
On  thy  waving  train  is  a  playful  hold 

Thou  shalt  never  to  lighter  grasp  persuade ; 
While  a  maiden  sits  in  thy  drooping  fold. 

And  swings  and  sings  in  the  noonday  shade  ! 

0  giant  strange  of  our  southern  woods  ! 

I  dream  of  thee  still  in  the  well-known  spot, 
Though  our  vessel  strains  o'er  the  ocean  floods, 
And  the  northern  forest  beholds  thee  not ; 

1  think  of  thee  still  with  a  sweet  regret. 

As  the  cordage  yields  to  my  playful  grasp — 
Dost  thou  spring  and  cling  in  our  woodlands  yet? 
Does  the  maiden  still  swing  in  thy  giant  clasp  ? 
William  Gilmore  Simms. 


MY  HEART  LEAPS  UP. 

Y  heart  leaps  up  when  I  behold 
A  rainbow  in  the  sky . 
So  was  it  when  my  life  began, 
So  is  it  now  I  am  a  man, 
So  be  it  when  I  shall  grow  old, 

Or  let  me  die ! 
The  child  is  father  of  the  man  ; 
And  I  could  wish  my  days  to  be 
Bound  each  to  each  by  natural  piety. 

William  Wordsworth. 


BEAUTIES   OF   NATURE. 


125 


THE  CLOSE  OF  SPRING. 

'HE  garlands  fade  that  spring  so  lately  wove  ; 
Each  simple  flower,  which  she  iiad  nursed 
in  dew, 

"f*    Anemonies  that  spangled  every  grove, 

The  primrose  wan,  and  harebell  mildly  blue. 
No  more  shall  violets  linger  in  the  dell. 

Or  purple  orchis  variegate  the  plain, 
Till  spring  again  shall  call  forth  every  bell, 

And  dress  with  humid  hands  her  wreaths  again. 
Ah,  poor  humanity  !  so  frail,  so  fair 

Are  the  fond  visions  of  thy  early  day, 
Till  tyrant  passion  and  corrosive  care 

Bid  all  thy  fairy  colors  fade  away  ! 
Another  May  new  buds  and  flowers  shall  bring  ; 
Ah  !  why  has  happiness  no  second  spring  ? 

Should  the  lone  wanderer,  fainting  on  his  way, 

Rest  for  a  moment  of  the  sultry  hours. 
And,  though  his  path  through  thorns  and  roughness 
lay. 

Pluck  the  wild  rose  or  woodbine's  gadding  flowers  ; 
Weaving  gay  wreaths  beneath  some  sheltering  tree, 

The  sense  of  sorrow  he  a  while  may  lose ; 
So  have  I  sought  thy  flowers,  fair  poesy  ! 

So  charmed  my  way  with  friendship  and  the  muse. 
But  darker  now  grows  life's  unhappy  day. 

Dark  with  new  clouds  of  evil  yet  to  come ; 
Her  pencil  sickening  fancy  throws  away, 

And  weary  hope  reclines  upon  the  tomb. 
And  points  my  wishes  to  that  tranquil  shore. 
Where  the  pale  spectre  care  pursues  no  more  ! 

Charlotte  Smith. 


iIj 


THE  WOOD-NYMPH. 

'HY  should  I,  with  a  mournful,  morbid  spleen. 
Lament  that  here,  in  this  half  desert  scene. 

My  lot  is  placed  ? 
At  least  the  poet-winds  are  bold  and  loud — 
At  least  the  sunset  glorifies  the  cloud, 
And  forests  old  and  proud 
Rustle  their  verdurous  banners  o'er  the  waste. 

Nature,  though  wild  her  forms,  sustains  me  still ; 
The  founts  are  musical — the  barren  hill 

Glows  with  strange  lights  ; 
Through  solemn  pine-groves  the  small  rivulets  fleet 
Sparkling,  as  if  a  naiad's  silvery  feet, 

In  quick  and  coy  retreat. 
Glanced  through  the  star-beams  on  calm  summer 
nights ; 

And  the  great  sky,  the  royal  heaven  above, 
Darkens  with  storms  or  melts  in  hues  of  love  ; 

While  far  remote. 
Just  where  the  sunlight  smites  the  woods  with  fire, 
Wakens  the  multitudinous  sylvan  choir, 

Their  innocent  love's  desire 
Poured  in  a  rill  of  song  from  each  harmonious  throat. 


NATURE'S  CHAIN. 

'^  OOK  round  our  world  ;  behold  the  chain  of  love 
j*  r     Combining  all  below  and  all  above, 
™     See  plastic  nature  working  to  this  end, 

The  single  atoms  each  to  other  tend, 
Attract,  attracted  to,  the  next  in  place. 
Formed  and  impelled  its  neighbor  to  embrace. 
See  matter  next,  with  various  life  endued. 
Press  to  one  centre  still,  the  general  good. 
See  dying  vegetables  life  sustain. 
See  life  dissolving  vegetate  again  : 
All  forms  that  perish  other  forms  supply, 
(By  turns  we  catch  the  vital  breath,  and  die) ; 
Like  bubbles  on  the  sea  of  matter  borne. 
They  rise,  they  break,  and  to  that  sea  return. 
Nothing  is  foreign  ;  parts  relate  to  whole ; 
One  all-extending,  all-preserving  soul 
Connects  each  being,  greatest  with  the  least ; 
Made  beast  in  aid  of  man,  and  man  of  beast ;     ^ 
All  served,  all  serving  ;  nothing  stands  alone  ; 
The  chain  holds  on,  and  where  it  ends,  unknown. 

Alexander  Pope. 

THE  LITTLE  BEACH  BIRD. 

"♦HOU  little  bird,  thou  dweller  by  the  sea, 
Why  takest  thou  its  melancholy  voice? 
Why  with  that  boding  cry 
f*  O'er  the  waves  dost  thou  fly  ? 

O,  rather,  bird,  with  me 
Through  the  fair  land  rejoice  ! 

Then  turn  thee,  little  bird,  and  take  thy  flight 
Where  the  complaining  sea  shall  sadness  bring 
Thy  spirit  nevermore. 
Come,  quit  with  me  the  shore. 
For  gladness  and  the  light, 
Where  birds  of  summer  sing. 

Richard  Henry  Dana. 


e 


THE  SWALLOW. 

OME  summer  visitant,  attach 

To  my  reed-roof  thy  nest  of  clay, 
And  let  my  ear  thy  music  catch, 
Low  twittering  underneath  the  thatch. 
At  the  gray  dawn  of  day. 

As  fables  tell,  an  Indian  sage. 

The  Hindustani  woods  among. 
Could  in  his  desert  hermitage. 
As  if 't  were  marked  in  written  page, 

Translate  the  wild  bird's  song. 

I  wish  I  did  his  power  possess, 

That  I  might  learn,  fleet  bird,  from  thee, 
What  our  vain  systems  only  guess. 
And  know  from  what  wild  wilderness 

Thou  earnest  o'er  the  sea. 

Charlotte  Smith. 


126 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


Ill 


ROBERT  OF  LINCOLN. 

ERRILY  swinging  on  brier  and  weed, 
Near  to  the  nest  of  his  little  dame, 
Over  the  mountain-side  or  mead, 
Robert  of  Lincoln  is  telling  his  name : 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink ; 
Snug  and  safe  is  that  nest  of  ours. 
Hidden  among  the  summer  flowers. 

Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Robert  of  Lincoln  is  gayly  dressed, 

Wearing  a  bright  black  wedding  coat ; 
White  are  his  shoulders  and  white  his  crest, 
Hear  him  call  in  his  merry  note  : 
Bob  o'-Iink,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink  ; 
Look,  what  a  nice  new  coat  is  mine, 
Sure  there  never  was  a  bird  so  fine. 

Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Robert  of  Lincoln's  Quaker  wife, 

Pretty  and  quiet,  with  plain  brown  wings. 
Passing  at  home  a  patient  life, 
Broods  in  the  grass  while  her  husband  sings 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink ; 
Brood,  kind  creature  ;  you  need  not  fear 
Thieves  and  robbers  while  I  am  here. 

Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Modest  and  shy  as  a  nun  is  she, 

One  weak  chirp  is  her  only  note, 
Braggart  and  prince  of  braggarts  is  he. 
Pouring  boasts  from  his  little  throat : 
Bob  o'-link,  bob  o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink, 
Never  was  I  afraid  of  man  ; 
Catch  me,  cowardly  knaves,  if  you  can. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Six  white  eggs  on  a  bed  of  hay. 

Flecked  with  purple,  a  pretty  sight ! 
There  as  the  mother  sits  all  day, 
Robert  is  singing  with  all  his  might : 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink  ; 
Nice  good  wife,  that  never  goes  out. 
Keeping  house  with  a  frolic  about. 

Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Soon  as  the  little  ones  chip  the  shell 

Six  wide  mouths  are  open  for  food ; 
Robert  of  Lincoln  bestirs  him  well, 
Gathering  seed  for  the  hungry  brood. 
Bob  o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink ; 
This  new  life  is  likely  to  be 
Hard  for  a  gay  young  fellow  like  me. 

Chee,  chee,  chee. 


Robert  of  Lincoln  at  length  is  made 

Sober  with  work,  and  silent  with  care; 
Off  is  his  holiday  garment  laid, 
Hal  ^forgotten  that  merry  air, 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink  : 
Nobody  knows  but  my  mate  and  I 
Where  our  nest  and  nestlings  lie. 

Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Summer  wanes ;  the  children  are  grown  ; 

Fun  and  frolic  no  more  he  knows  ; 
Robert  of  Lincoln's  a  humdrum  crone ; 
Off  he  flies,  and  we  sing  as  he  goes  : 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink ; 
When  you  can  pipe  that  merry  old  strain, 
Robert  of  Lincoln,  come  back  again. 

William  Cullen  Bryant. 


lij 


MAY  TO  APRIL. 

ITHOUT  your  showers 
I  breed  no  flowers  ; 
Each  field  a  barren  waste  appears  ; 
If  you  don't  weep. 
My  blossoms  sleep, 
They  take  such  pleasure  in  your  tears. 

Philip  Frenau. 

SONG  OF  WOOD-NVMPHS. 


OME  here,  come  here,  and  dwell 

In  forest  deep ! 

Come  here,  come  here,  and  tell 

Why  thou  dost  weep  1 
Is  it  for  love  (sweet  pain  !) 
That  thus  thou  dar'st  complain 
Unto  our  pleasant  shades,  our  summer  leaves. 
Where  nought  else  grieves  ? 

Come  here,  come  here,  and  lie 

By  whispering  stream ! 

Here  no  one  dares  to  die 

For  love's  sweet  dream ; 

But  health  all  seek,  and  joy. 

And  shun  perverse  annoy, 

And  race  along  green  paths  till  close  of  day, 

And  laugh — alway  ! 

Or  else,  through  half  the  year, 
On  rushy  floor, 
We  lie  by  waters  clear, 
While  sky-larks  pour 
Their  songs  into  the  sun  ! 
And  when  bright  day  is  done. 
We  hide  'neath  bells  of  flowers  or  nodding  corn, 
And  dream — till  morn  ! 
Brvan  Waller  Proctor  {Barry  Cornwall), 


BEAUTIES   OF   NATURE. 


127 


ANSWER  TO  A  CHILD'S  QUESTION. 

^O  you  ask  what  the  birds  say?    The  sparrow, 
the  dove, 
The  linnet,  and  thrush  say,  "  I  love,  and  I 
love ! " 
In  the  winter  they're  silent,  the  w^!nd  is  so  strong  ; 
What  it  says  I  don't  know,  but  it  sings  a  loud  song. 
But  green  leaves,   and    blossoms,   and  sunny  warm 

weather, 
And  singing  and  loving — all  come  back  together. 
But  the  lark  is  so  brimful  of  gladness  and  love. 
The  green  fields  below  him,  the  blue  sky  above, 
That  he  sings,  and  he  sings,  and  forever  sings  he, 
"  I  love  my  love,  and  my  love  loves  me." 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge. 


THE  BOBOLINK. 

,  AYEST  songster  of  the  spring ! 
Thy  melodies  before  me  bring 
Visions  of  some  dream -built  land, 
Where,  by  constant  zephyrs  fanned, 
I  might  walk  the  livelong  day, 
Embosomed  in  perpetual  May. 
Nor  care  nor  fear  thy  bosom  knows, 
For  thee  a  tempest  never  blows; 
But  when  our  northern  summer's  o'er. 
By  Delaware  or  Schuylkill's  shore 
The  wild  rice  lifts  its  airy  head, 
And  royal  feasts  for  thee  are  spread. 
And  when  the  winter  threatens  there, 
Thy  tireless  wings  yet  own  no  fear. 
But  bear  thee  to  more  southern  coasts. 
Far  beyond  the  reach  of  frosts. 
Bobolink!  still  may  thy  gladness 
Take  from  me  all  taints  of  sadness ! 

Thomas  Hill. 


THE  KATYDID. 

LOVE  to  hear  thine  earnest  voice. 

Wherever  thou  art  hid, 
Thou  testy  little  dogmatist. 

Thou  pretty  Katydid ! 
Thou  mindest  me  of  gentlefolks — 

Old  gentlefolks  are  they — 
Thou  sayest  an  undisputed  thing 

In  such  a  solemn  way. 

Thou  art  a  female,  Katydid  ! 

I  know  it  by  the  trill 
That  quivers  through  thy  piercing  notes, 

So  petulent  and  shrill. 
I  think  there  is  a  knot  of  you 

Beneath  the  hollow  tree — 
A  knot  of  spinster  Katydids — 

Do  Katydids  drink  tea? 

O,  tell  me  where  did  Katy  live. 
And  what  did  Katy  do  ? 


And  was  she  very  fair  and  young, 

And  yet  so  wicked  too  ? 
Did  Katy  love  a  naughty  man, 

Or  kiss  more  cheeks  than  one  ? 
I  warrant  Katy  did  no  more 

Than  many  a  Kate  has  done. 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 


THE  DEPARTURE  OF  THE  NIGHTINGALE. 

WEET  poet  of  the  woods,  a  long  adieu  ! 
Farewell  soft  minstrel  of  the  early  year  ! 
Ah  !  'twill  be  long  ere  thou  shalt  sing  anew, 
And  pour  thy  music  on  the  night's  dull  ear. 
Whether  on  spring  thy  wandering  flights  await, 

Or  whether  silent  in  our  groves  you  dwell, 
The  pensive  muse  shall  own  thee  for  her  mate. 
And  still  protect  the  song  she  loves  so  well. 
With  cautious  step  the  love-lorn  youth  shall  glide 

Through  the  lone  brake  that  shades  thy  mossy  nest; 
And  shepherd  girls  from  eyes  profane  shall  hide 

The  gentle  bird  who  sings  of  pity  best : 
For  still  thy  voice  shall  soft  affections  move. 
And  still  be  dear  to  sorrow  and  to  love ! 

Charlotte  Smith. 


ADDRESS  TO  THE  BUTTERFLY. 

HILD  of  the  sun  !  pursue  thy  rapturous  flight. 
Mingling  with  her  thou  lovest  in  fields  of  light. 
And  where  the  flowers  of  paradise  unfold, 
Quaff  fragrant  nectar  from  their  cups  of  gold : 
There  shall  thy  wings,  rich  as  an  evening  sky, 
Expand  and  shut  with  silent  ecstasy  : 
Yet  wert  thou  once  a  worm — a  thing  that  crept 
On  the  bare  earth,  then  wrought  a  tomb  and  slept. 
And  such  is  man  ! — soon  from  his  cell  of  clay 
To  burst  a  seraph  in  the  blaze  of  day. 

Samuel  Rogers. 


llJ' 


THE  REDBREAST.. 

HEN  that  the  fields  put  on  their  gay  attire, 
Thou  silent  sittest  near  brake  or  river's  brim. 
Whilst  the  gay  thrush  sings  loud  from  covert 
dim ; 
But  when  pale  winter  lights  the  social  fire. 
And  meads  with  slime  are  sprent  and  ways  with  mire. 
Thou  charmest  us  with  thy  soft  and  solemn  hymn, 
From  battlement,  or  bam,  or  hay-stack  trim  ; 

And  now  not  seldom  tunest,  as  if  for  hire, 
Thy  thrilling  pipe  to  me,  waiting  to  catch 

The  pittance  due  to  thy  well-warbled  song  : 
Sweet  bird,  sing  on  !  for  ofl  near  lonely  hatch. 

Like  thee,  myself  have  pleased  the  rustic  throng, 
And  oft  for  entrance  'neath  the  peaceful  thatch, 
Full  many  a  tale  have  told  and  ditty  long. 

John  Bampfyujk. 


128 


CROWN  J-EWELS. 


THE  SKYLARK. 

jIRD  of  the  wilderness, 

Blithesome  and  cumberless, 
Sweet  be  thy  matin  o'er  moorland  and  lea  ! 

Emblem  of  happiness, 
Blest  is  thy  dwelling-place — 
O  to  abide  in  the  desert  with  thee  ! 
Wild  is  thy  lay  and  loud. 
Far  in  the  downy  cloud, 
Love  gives  it  energy,  love  gave  it  birth  ; 
Where,  on  thy  dewy  wing, 
Where  art  thou  journeying  ? 
Thy  lay  is  in  heaven,  thy  love  is  on  earth. 

O'er  fell  and  fountain  sheen, 

O'er  moor  and  mountain  green. 
O'er  the  red  streamer  that  heralds  the  day, 

Over  the  cloudlet  dim, 

Over  the  rainbow's  rim, 
Musical  cherub,  soar,  singing,  away  ! 

Then,  when  the  gloaming  comes, 

Low  in  the  heather  blooms, 
Sweet  will  thy  welcome  and  bed  of  love  be  ! 

Emblem  of  happiness, 

Blest  is  thy  dwelling-place — 
O  to  abide  in  the  desert  with  thee  ! 

James  Hogg. 

THE  CUCKOO. 


BLITHE  new-comer  !     I  have  heard, 
I  hear  thee  and  rejoice  : 
O  cuckoo  !  shall  I  call  thee  bird, 
Or  but  a  wandering  voice  ? 

While  I  am  lying  on  the  grass 
Thy  twofold  shout  I  hear  ; 
From  hill  to  hill  it  seems  to  pass, 
At  once  far  off  and  near. 

Though  babbling  only  to  the  vale 
Of  sunshine  and  of  flowers, 
Thou  bringest  unto  me  a  tale 
Of  visionary  hours. 

Thrice  welcome,  darling  of  the  spi 
Even  yet  thou  art  to  me 
No  bird,  but  an  invisible  thing 
A  voice,  a  mystery. 

To  seek  thee  did  I  often  rove 
Through  woods  and  on  the  green  ; 
And  thou  wert  still  a  hope,  a  love  ; 
Still  longed  for,  never  seen  1 

And  I  can  listen  to  thee  yet ; 
Can  lie  upon  the  plain 
And  listen,  till  I  do  beget 
That  golden  time  again. 

William  Wardsworth. 


NIGHT  BIRDS. 

'IGH  overhead  the  stripe-winged  nightkawk 
soars, 
With  loud  responses  to  his  distant  love  ; 
And  while  the  air  for  insects  he  explores, 
In  frequent  swoop  descending  from  above. 
Startles,  with  whizzing  sound,  the  fearful  wight. 
Who  wanders  lonely  in  the  silent  night. 

Around  our  heads  the  bat,  on  leathern  wings. 
In  airy  circles  wheels  his  sudden  flight ;    .  ^ 

The  whippoorwill,  in  distant  forest,  sings 
Her  loud,  unvaried  song  ;  and  o'er  the  night 

The  boding  owl,  upon  the  evening  gale, 

Sends  forth  her  wild  and  melancholy  wail. 

The  first  sweet  hour  of  gentle  evening  flies. 

On  downy  pinions  to  eternal  rest ; 
Along  the  vale  the  balmy  breezes  rise, 

Fanning  the  languid  boughs  ;  while  in  the  west 
The  last  faint  streaks  of  daylight  die  away. 
And  night  and  silence  close  the  summer  day. 

Alonzo  Lewis. 


THE    MOCKING  BIRD  CALLING  HER   MATE, 

throat !  O  trembling  throat ! 
Sound  clearer  through  the  atmosphere  ! 
Pierce  the  woods,  the  earth  ; 
Somewhere  listening  to  catch  you,  must  be 
the  one  I  want. 

Shake  out,  carols ! 
Solitary  here — the  night's  carols  I 
Carols  of  lonesome  love  !    Death's  carols  ! 
Carols  under  that  lagging,  yellow,  waning  moon  ! 
O,  under  that  moon,  where  she  droops  almost  down 

into  the  sea  ! 
O  reckless,  despairing  carols  ! 

But  soft !  sink  low  ; 
Soft !  let  me  just  murmur  ; 

And  do  you  wait  a  moment,  you  husky-noised  sea  ; 
For  somewhere  I  believe  I  heard  my  mate  responding 

to  me. 
So  faint— I  must  be  still,  be  still  to  listen ; 
But  not  altogether  still,  for  then  she  might  not  come 

immediately  to  me. 

Hither,  my  love ! 
Here  I  am  !  Here  ! 

With  this  just-sustained  note  I  announce  myself  to  you  ; 
This  gentle  call  is  for  you,  my  love,  for  you. 

Do  not  be  decoyed  elsewhere ! 
That  is  the  whistle  of  the  wind — it  is  not  my  vcice; 
That  is  the  fluttering,  the  fluttering  of  the  spray  ; 
Those  are  the  shadows  of  leaves. 

O  darkness  !  O  in  vain  1 

O,  I  am  very  sick  and  sorrowful. 

Walt  Whitman. 


fE. 


.A 


F  hin    'HiREA 


BEAUTIES   OF   NATURE. 


131 


THE  LION'S  RIDE. 

*HE  lion  is  the  desert's  king;  through  his  domain 
so  wide 
Right  swiftly  and  right  royally  this   night  he 
"^  means  to  ride. 

By  the  sedgy  brink,  where  the  wild  herds  drink,  close 

crouches  the  grim  chief; 
The  trembling  sycamore  above  whispers  with  every  leaf. 

At  evemng,  on  the  Table  Mount,  when  ye  can  see  no 

more 
The  changeful  play  of  signals  gay ;  when  the  gloom  is 

speckled  o'er 
With  kraal  fires  ;  when  the  CaflTre  wends  home  through 

the  lone  karroo ; 
When  the  boshbok  in  the  thicket  sleeps,  and  by  the 

stream  the  gnu ; 

Then  bend  your  gaze  across  the  waste — what  see  ye  ? 

The  giraffe, 
Majestic,  stalks  towards  the  lagoon,  the  turbid  IjTnph 

to  quaff; 
With  outstretched  neck  and  tongue  adust,  he  kneels 

him  down  to  cool 
His  hot  thirst  with  a  welcome  draught  from  the  foul 

and  brackish  pool. 

A  rustling  sound,  a  roar,  a  bound — the  lion  sits  astride 
Upon  his  giant  courser's  back.    Did  ever  king  so  ride? 
Had  ever  king  a  steed  so  rare,  caparisons  of  state 
To  match  the  dappled  skin  whereon  that  rider  sits 
elate  ? 

In  the  muscles  of  the  neck  his  teeth  are  plunged  with 

ravenous  greed  ; 
His  tawny  mane  is  tossing  round  the  withers  of  the 

steed. 
Up  leaping  with  a  hollow  yell  of  anguish  and  surprise. 
Away,  away,  in  wild  dismay,  the  cameleopard  flies. 

His  feet  have  wings ;  see  how  he  springs  across  the 
moonlit  plain ! 

As  from  their  sockets  they  would  burst,  his  glaring  eye- 
balls strain ; 

In  thick  black  streams  of  purling  blood,  full  fast  his  life 
is  fleeting ; 

The  stillness  of  the  desert  hears  his  heart's  tumultuous 
beating. 

Like  the  cloud  that,  through  the  wilderness,  the  path 

of  Israel  traced — 
Like  an  airy  phantom,  dull  and  wan,  a  spirit  of  the 

waste — 
From  the  sandy  sea  uprising,  as  the  water-spout  from 

ocean, 
A  whirling  cloud  of  dust  keeps  pace  with  the  courser's 

fiery  motion. 

Croaking  companion  of  their  flight,  the  vulture  whirs 

on  high  : 
Below,  the  terror  of  the  fold,  the  panther  fierce  and  sly, 


And  hyenas  foul,  round  graves  that  prowl,  join  in  the 
horrid  race ; 

By  the  footprints  wet  with  gore  and  sweat,  their  mon- 
arch's course  they  trace. 

They  see  him  on  his  living  throne,  and  quake  with 

fear,  tlie  while 
With  claws  of  steel  he  tears  piecemeal  his  cushion's 

painted  pile. 
On !    on !    no  pause,   no  rest,   giraffe,  while  life  and 

strength  remain ! 
The  steed  by  such  a  rider  backed  may  madly  plunge 

in  vain. 

Reeling  upon  the  desert's  verge,  he  falls,  and  breathes 

his  last ; 
The  courser,  stained  with  dust  and  foam,  is  the  rider's 

fell  repast. 
O'er  Madagascar,  eastward  far,  a  faint  flush  is  descried  : 
Thus  nightly,  o'er  his  broad  domain,  the  king  of  beasts 

doth  ride. 

Ferdinand  Freiligrath. 


LAMBS  AT  PLAY. 

AY,  ye  that  know,  ye  who  have  felt  and  seen 
Spring's  morning  smiles,  and  soul  enlivening 

green — 
Say,  did  you  give  that  thrilling  transport  way, 
Did  your  eye  brighten,  when  young  lambs  at  play 
Leaped  o'er  your  path  wiih  animated  pride, 
Or  gazed  in  merry  clusters  by  your  side? 
Ye  who  can  smile — to  wisdom  no  disgrace  — 
At  the  arch  meaning  of  a  kitten's  face ; 
If  spotless  innocence  and  infant  mirth 
Excites  to  praise,  or  gives  reflection  birth  ; 
In  shades  like  these  pursue  your  favorite  joy, 
Midst  nature's  revels,  sports  that  never  cloy. 
A  few  begin  a  short  but  vigorous  race. 
And  indolence,  abashed,  soon  flies  the  place  : 
Thus  challenged  forth,  see  thither,  one  by  one, 
From.every  side  assembling  playmates  run  ; 
A  thousand  wily  antics  mark  their  stay, 
A  starting  crowd,  impatient  of  delay  ; 
Like  the  fond  dove  from  fearful  prison  freed, 
Each  seems  to  say,  "  Come,  let  us  try  our  speed  ;*' 
Away  they  scour,  impetuous,  ardent,  strong, 
The  green  turf  trembling  as  they  bound  along 
Adown  the  slope,  then  up  the  hillock  climb, 
Where  every  mole-hill  is  a  bed  of  thyme, 
Then,  panting,  stop  ;  yet  scarcely  can  refrain — 
A  bird,  a  leaf,  will  set  them  off  again  : 
Or.  if  a  gale  with  strength  unusual  blow, 
Scattering  the  wild-brier  roses  into  snow, 
Their  little  limbs  increasing  efforts  try  ; 
Like  the  thorn  flower,  the  fair  assemblage  fly. 
Ah,  fallen  roses  !  sad  emblem  of  their  doom  ; 
Frail  as  thyself,  they  perish  while  they  bloom  ! 
Robert  Bloomfikud. 


132 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


A  SONG  IN  THE  GROVE. 

NIGHTINGALE,  best  poet  of  the  grove, 
That  plaintive  strain  can  ne'er  belong  to 
thee, 
-^  Blest  in  the  full  possession  of  thy  love  : 

0  lend  that  strain,  sweet  nightingale,  to  me  ! 

'Tis  mine,  alas  !  to  mourn  my  wretched  fate  : 

1  love  a  maid  who  all  my  bosom  charms, 
Yet  lose  my  days  without  this  lovely  mate  ; 

Inhuman  fortune  keeps  her  from  my  arms. 

You,  happy  birds  !  by  nature's  simple  laws 

Lead  3'our  soft  lives,  sustained  by  nature's  fare  ; 

You  dwell  wherever  roving  fancy  draws. 
And  love  and  song  is  all  your  pleasing  care  : 

But  we,  vain  slaves  of  interest  and  of  pride, 
Dare  not  be  blest  lest  envious  tongues  should  blame  : 

And  hence,  in  vain  I  languish  for  my  bride  : 
O  mourn  with  me,  sweet  bird,  my  hapless  flame. 

James  Thomson. 


SUMMER  LONGINGS. 


0 


H 


my  heart  is  weary  waiting. 

Waiting  for  the  May — 
Waiting  for  the  pleasant  rambles 
Where  the  fragrant  hawthorn-brambles, 
With  the  woodbine  alternating, 

Scent  the  dewy  way. 
Ah  !  my  heart  is  weary  waiting, 

Waiting  for  the  May. 


Ah  !  my  heart  is  sick  with  longing, 
Longing  for  the  May — 
Longing  to  escape  from  study 
To  the  young  face  fair  and  ruddy, 
And  the  thousand  charms  belonging 

To  the  summer's  day. 
Ah  !  my  heart  is  sick  with  longing, 
Longing  for  the  May. 

Ah!  my  heart  is  sore  with  sighing, 
Sighing  for  the  May — 
Sighing  for  their  sure  returning, 
When  the  summer  beams  are  burning, 
Hopes  and  flowers  that,  dead  or  dying, 

All  the  winter  lay. 
Ah  !  my  heart  is  sore  with  sighing. 
Sighing  for  the  May. 

Ah  !  my  heart  is  pained  with  throbbing, 
Throbbing  for  the  May- 
Throbbing  for  the  seaside  billows. 
Or  the  water  wooing  willows  ; 
Where,  in  laughing  and  in  sobbing, 
Glide  the  streams  away. 


Ah  !  my  heart,  my  heart  is  throbbing. 
Throbbing  for  the  May. 

Waiting  sad,  dejected,  weary. 
Waiting  for  the  May ; 
Spring  goes  by  with  wasted  warnings — 
Moonlit  evenings,  sunbright  mornings — 
Summer  comes,  yet  dark  and  dreary 

Life  still  ebbs  away  ; 

Man  is  ever  weary,  weary. 

Waiting  for  the  May  ! 

Denis  Florence  MacCarthy. 


ON  A  GOLDFINCH. 

'IME  was  when  I  was  free  as  air, 
The  thistle's  downy  seed  my  fare. 

My  drink  the  morning  dew  ; 
I  perched  at  will  on  every  spray. 
My  form  genteel,  my  plumage  gay, 
My  strains  forever  new. 

But  gaudy  plumage,  sprightly  strain, 
And  form  genteel,  were  all  in  vain. 

And  of  a  transient  date  ; 
For  caught  and  caged,  and  starved  to  death. 
In  dying  sighs  my  little  breath 

Soon  passed  the  wiry  grate. 

Thanks,  gentle  swain,  for  all  my  woes. 
And  thanks  for  this  effectual  close 

And  cure  of  every  ill ! 
More  cruelty  could  none  express  ; 
And  I,  if  you  had  shown  me  less. 

Had  been  your  prisoner  still. 

William  Cowper. 


THE  ROBIN. 

'  EE  yon  robin  on  the  spray ; 
Look  ye  !  how  his  tiny  form 
Swells,  as  when  his  merry  lay 
Gushes  forth  amid  the  storm. 

Though  the  snow  is  falling  fast. 
Specking  o'er  his  coat  with  white — 
Though  loud  roars  the  chilly  blast. 
And  the  evening 's  lost  in  night — 

Yet  from  out  the  darkness  dreary 
Cometh  still  that  cheerful  note  ; 
Praiseful  aye,  and  never  weary, 
Is  that  little  warbling  throat. 

Thank  him  for  his  lesson's  sake, 
Thank  God's  gentle  minstrel  there. 
Who,  when  storms  make  others  quake. 
Sings  of  days  that  brighter  were. 

JiARRisoN  Weir. 


BEAUTIES   OF   NATURE. 


133 


THE  BLOOD  HORSE. 

,  AMARRA  is  a  dainty  steed, 

Strong,  black,  and  of  a  noble  breed, 
Full  of  fire,  and  full  of  bone, 
With  all  his  line  of  fathers  known ; 

Fine  his  nose,  his  nostrils  thin. 

But  blown  abroad  by  the  pride  within ! 

His  mane  is  like  a  river  flowing. 

And  his  eyes  like  embers  glowing 

In  the  darkness  of  the  night. 

And  his  pace  as  swift  as  light. 

Look — how  round  his  straining  throat 

Grace  and  shifting  beauty  float ; 

Sinewy  strength  is  in  his  reins. 

And  the  red  blood  gallops  through  his  veins : 

Richer,  redder,  never  ran 

Through  the  boasting  heart  of  man. 

He  can  trace  his  lineage  higher 

Than  the  Bourbon  dare  aspire — 

Douglas,  Guzman,  or  the  Guelph, 

Or  O'Brien's  blood  itself! 

He,  who  hath  no  peer,  was  bom 

Here,  upon  a  red  March  mom. 

But  his  famous  fathers  dead 

Were  Arabs  all,  and  Arab-bred, 

And  the  last  of  that  great  line 

Trod  like  one  of  a  race  divine  ! 

And  yet — he  was  but  friend  to  one 

Who  fed  him  at  the  set  of  sun 

By  some  lone  fountain  fringed  with  green ; 

With  him,  a  roving  Bedouin, 

He  lived  (none  else  would  he  obey 

Through  all  the  hot  Arabian  day), 

And  died  untamed  upon  the  sands 

W^here  Balkh  amidst  the  desert  stands. 

Bryan  W.  Procter  {Barry  Cornwall). 


F 


SEPTEMBER  RAIN. 

ATTER— patter- 
Listen  how  the  rain-drops  clatter. 
Falling  on  the  shingle  roof; 
How  they  rattle. 
Like  the  rifle's  click  in  battle. 
Or  the  charger's  iron  hoof! 

Cool  and  pleasant 
Is  the  evening  air  at  present, 
Gathering  freshness  from  the  rain ; 
Languor  chasing, 
Muscle,  thew,  and  sinew  bracing, 
And  enlivening  the  brain. 

.  Close  together 
Draw  the  bands  of  love  in  weather 
When  the  sky  is  overcast ; 
Eyeballs  glisten — 


Thankfully  we  sit  and  listen 
To  the  rain  that's  coming  fast. 

Dropping — dropping 
Like  dissolving  diamonds — popping 
'Gainst  the  crystal  window-pane, 
As  il  seeking 
Entrance-welcome,  and  bespeaking 
Our  affection  for  tlie  rain. 

Quick,  and  quicker 
Come  the  droppings — thick  and  thicker. 
Pour  the  hasty  torrents  down : 
Rushing — rushing — 
From  the  leaden  spouts  a-gushing. 
Cleansing  all  the  streets  in  town. 

Darkness  utter 
Gathers  round ; — we  close  the  shutter  ; 
Snugly  sheltered  let  us  keep. 
Still  unceasing 
Falls  the  rain  ;  but  oh  !  'tis  pleasing 
'Neath  such  lullaby  to  sleep. 

How  I  love  it  I 
Let  the  miser  money  covet — 
Let  the  soldier  seek  the  fight ; 
Give  me  only. 
When  I  lie  awake  and  lonely, 
Music  made  by  rain  at  night. 

Thomas  MacKeller. 


NO! 


O  sun — no  moon ! 
No  morn — no  noon — 

No  dawn — no  dust — no  proper  time  of  day- 
No  sky — no  earthly  view — 
No  distance  looking  blue — 
No  road — no  street — no  "  t'other  side  the  way" — 
No  end  to  any  row — 
No  indications  where  the  crescents  go — 
No  top  to  any  steeple — 
No  recognitions  of  familiar  people — 

No  courtesies  for  showing  'em — 
No  knowing  'em  ! 
No  traveling  at  all — no  locomotion, 
No  inkling  of  the  way — no  notion — 
'•  No  go" — by  land  or  ocean — 
No  mail — no  post — 
No  newsfrom  any  foreign  coast — ■ 
No  park — no  ring — no  afternoon  gentility — 

No  company — no  nobility — 
No  warmth,  no  cheerfulness,  no  healthful  ease, 
No  comfortable  feel  in  any  member — 
No  shade,  no  shine,  no  butterflies,  no  bees, 
No  fruits,  no  flowers,  no  leaves,  no  birds, 
November ! 

Thomas  Hood. 


134 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


AUTUMN. 

■  HE  autumn  is  old  ; 

The  sear  leaves  are  flying  ; 
He  hath  gathced  up  gold. 
And  now  he  is  dying  : 

Old  age,  begin  sighing  I 

The  vintage  is  ripe  ; 
The  harvest  is  heaping  ; 
But  some  that  have  sowed 
Have  no  riches  for  reaping — 
Poor  wretch,  fall  a-weeping  I 

The  year's  in  the  wane  ; 
There  is  nothing  adorning  ; 
The  night  has  no  eve. 
And  the  day  has  no  morning  ; 
Cold  winter  gives  warning. 

The  rivers  run  chill ; 
The  red  sun  is  sinking  ; 
And  I  am  grown  old, 
And  life  is  fast  shrinking  ; 
Here's  enow  for  sad  thinking  I 

Thomas  Hood. 


But  still  wild  music  is  abroad, 

Pale,  desert  woods,  within  your  crowd ; 
And  gathered  winds,  in  hoarse  accord. 

Amid  the  vocal  reeds  pipe  loud. 

Chill  airs,  and  wintry  winds,  my  ear 
Has  grown  familiar  with  your  song ; 

I  hear  it  in  the  opening  year — 
I  listen,  and  it  cheers  me  long. 

Henry  Wadswgrth  Longfellow. 


llJ 


WOODS  IN  WINTER 

HEN  winter  winds  are  piercing  chill, 

And  through  the  white-thorn  blows  the 
gale, 
With  solemn  feet  1  tread  the  hill, 
That  over  brows  the  lonely  vale. 


O'er  the  bare  upland,  and  away 

Through  the  long  reach  of  desert  woods. 
The  embracing  sunbeams  chastely  play. 

And  gladden  these  deep  solitudes. 

On  the  gray  maple's  crusted  bark 
Its  tender  shoots  the  hoar-frost  nips  ; 

Whilst  in  the  frozen  fountain — hark  ! — 
His  piercing  beak  the  bittern  dips. 

Where,  twisted  round  the  barren  oak. 
The  summer  vine  in  beauty  clung, 

And  summer  winds  the  stillness  broke — 
The  crystal  icicle  is  hung. 

Where,  from  their  frozen  urns,  mute  springs 
Pour  out  the  river's  gradual  tide. 

Shrilly  the  skater's  iron  rings, 
And  voices  fill  the  woodland  side. 

Alas  !  how  changed  from  the  fair  scene. 
When  birds  sang  out  their  mellow  lay ; 

And  winds  were  soft,  and  woods  were  green. 
And  the  song  ceased  not  with  the  day  ! 


SEPTEMBER. 

HE  cricket  chirps  all  day, 

"  O  fairest  summer,  stay  !  " 
The    squirrel    eyes    askance    the   chestnuts 

browning ; 
The  wild  fowl  fly  afar 
Above  the  foamy  bar. 
And  hasten  southward  ere  the  skies  are  frowning. 

Now  comes  a  fragrant  breeze 

Through  the  dark  cedar  trees. 
And  round  about  my  temples  fondly  lingers, 

In  gentle  playfulness, 

Like  to  the  soft  caress 
Bestowed  in  happier  days  by  loving  fingers. 

Yet,  though  a  sense  of  grief 

Comes  with  the  falling  leaf, 
And  memory  makes  the  summer  doubly  pleasant. 

In  all  my  autumn  dreams 

A  future  summer  gleams, 
Passing  the  fairest  glories  of  the  present ! 

George  Arnold. 

WINTER. 


N  all  thy  trees,  on  every  bough, 
Thousands  of  crystals  sparkle  now. 

Where'er  our  eyes  alight  ; 
Firm  on  the  spotless  robe  we  tread. 
Which  o'er  thy  beauteous  form  is  spread, 
With  glittering  hoar-frost  bright. 


Our  Father  kind,  who  dwells  above, 
For  thee  this  garment  pure  hath  wove  ; 

He  watches  over  thee. 
Therefore  in  peace  thy  slumber  take, 
Our  Father  will  the  weary  wake,     -^ 

New  strength,  new  light  to  see. 

Soon  to  the  breath  of  spring's  soft  sighs. 
Delighted  thou  again  wilt  rise, 

In  wondrous  life  so  fair. 
I  feel  those  sighs  breathe  o'er  the  plain. 
Dear  nature,  then  rise  up  again 

With  flower-wreaths  in  thy  hair. 

Friedrich  W.  Krummachkr. 


BEAUTIES  OF  NATURE. 


135 


n 


MAY  MORNING. 

OW  the  bright  morning  star,  day's  harbinger, 
Comes  dancing  from  the  east,  and  leads  with 

her 

The  flowery  May,  who  from  her  green  lap 
throws 
The  yellow  cowslip  and  the  pale  primrose. 

Hail,  beauteous  May  !  that  doth  inspire 
Mirth  and  youth  and  warm  desire  ; 
Woods  and  groves  are  of  thy  dressing, 
Hill  and  dale  doth  boast  thy  blessing. 
Thus  we  salute  thee  with  our  early  song, 
And  welcome  thee,  and  wish  thee  long. 

John  Milton. 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  FLOWERS. 

'HE  melancholy  days  are  come,  the  saddest  of 
the  year, 
Of  wailing  winds,  and  naked  woods,  and  mea- 
"^  dows  brown  and  sere. 

Heap'd  in  the  hollows  of  the  grove,  the  wither'd  leaves 

lie  dead ; 
They  rustle  to  the  eddying  gust,  and  to  the  rabbit's 

tread. 
The  robin  and  the  wren  are  flown,  and  from  the  shrub 

the  jay. 
And  from  the  wood-top  calls  the  crow,  through  all  the 
gloomy  day. 

Where  are  the  flowers,  the  fair  young  flowers,  that 
lately  sprung  and  stood 

In  brighter  light  and  softer  airs,  a  beauteous  sister- 
hood? 

Alas !  they  all  are  in  their  graves,  the  gentle  race  of 
flowers 

Are  lying  in  their  lowly  beds,  with  the  fair  and  good  of 
ours. 

The  rain  is  falling  where  they  lie  ;  but  the  cold  Novem- 
ber rain 

Calls  not,  from  out  the  gloomy  earth,  the  lovely  ones 
again. 

The  wind-flower  and  the  violet,  they  perished  long  ago. 

And  the  wild-rose  and  the  orchis  died  amid  the  sum- 
mer glow : 

But  on  the  hill  the  golden-rod,  and  the  aster  in  the 
wood, 

And  the  yellow  sun-flower  by  the  brook  in  autumn 
beauty  stood. 

Till  fell  the  frost  from  the  clear,  cold  heaven,  as  falls 
the  plague  on  men. 

And  the  brightness  of  their  smile  was  gone  from  up- 
land, glade  and  glen. 

And  now,  when  comes  the  calm,  mild  day,  as  still  such 

days  will  come. 
To  call  the  squirrel  and  the  bee  from  out  their  winter 

homo 


When  the  sound  of  dropping  nuts  is  heard,  though  all 
the  trees  are  still. 

And  twinkle  in  the  smoky  light  the  waters  of  the  rill. 

The  south  wind  searches  for  the  flowers  whose  frag- 
rance Jate  he  bore. 

And  sighs  to  find  them  in  the  wood  and  by  the  stream 
no  more. 

And  then  I  think  of  one  who  in  her  youthful  beauty  died, 
The  fair,  meek  blossom  that  grew  up  and  faded  by  my 

side : 
In  the  cold  moist  earth  we  laid  her  when  the  forest  cast 

the  leaf. 
And  we  wept  that  one  so  lovely  should  have  a  life  so 

brief; 
Yet  not  unmeet  it  was,  that  one,  like  that  young  friend 

oi  ours 
So  gentle  and  so    beautiful,   should  perish  with  the 

flowers. 

William  Cullen  Bryant. 

NOVEMBER. 

'HE  mellow  year  is  hasting  to  its  close 

The  little  birds  have  almost  sung  their  last, 
Their  small  notes  twitter  in  the  dreary  blast — 
"^       That  shrill-piped  harbinger  of  early  snows  ; 
The  patient  beauty  of  the  scentless  rose. 
Oft  with  the  morn's  hoar  crystal  quaintly  glassed, 
Hangs,  a  pale  mourner  for  the  summer  past. 
And  makes  a  little  summer  where  it  grows. 
In  the  chill  sunbeam  of  the  faint  brief  day 
The  dusky  waters  shudder  as  they  shine  ; 
The  russet  leaves  obstruct  the  straggling  way 
Of  oozy  brooks,  which  no  deep  banks  define  ; 
And  the  gaunt  woods,  in  ragged,  scant  array,    . 
Wrap  their  old  limbs  with  sombre  ivy  twine. 

Hartley  Coleridge. 


WHAT  THE  WINDS  BRING. 

HICH  is  the  wind  that  brings  the  cold  ? 

The  north-wind,  Freddy,  and  all  the  snow ; 
And  the  sheep  will  scamper  into  the  fold 
When  the  north  begins  to  blow. 

Which  is  the  wind  that  brings  the  heat  ? 

The  south-wind,  Katy  ;  and  corn  will  grow. 
And  peaches  redden  for  you  to  eat. 

When  the  south  begins  to  blow. 

Which  is  the  wind  that  brings  the  rain  ? 

The  east-wind,  Arty ;  and  farmers  know 
That  cows  come  shivering  up  the  lane. 

When  the  east  begins  to  blow. 

Which  is  the  wind  that  brings  the  flowers? 

The  west-wind,  Bessy  ;  and  soft  and  low 
The  birdies  sing  in  the  summer  hours 

When  the  west  begins  to  blow. 

Edmund  Clarence  Stedman. 


136 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


P 


THE  SNOWDROP. 

RETTY  firstling  of  the  year ! 

Herald  of  the  host  of  flowers  ! 
Hast  thou  left  thy  cavern  drear, 

In  the  hope  of  summer  hours? 

Back  unto  thy  earthen  bowers  ! 
Back  to  thy  warm  world  below, 

Till  the  strength  of  suns  and  showers 
Quell  the  now  relentless  snow  ! 

Art  still  here  ? — alive  and  blithe  ? 

Though  the  stormy  night  hath  fled, 
And  the  frost  hath  passed  his  scythe 

O'er  thy  small,  unsheltered  head? 

Ah  !  some  lie  amidst  the  dead, 
(Many  a  giant,  stubborn  tree — 

^lany  a  plant,  its  spirit  shed), 
That  were  better  nursed  than  thee  . 

What  hath  saved  thee?    Thou  wast  not 
'Gainst  the  arrowy  winter  furred — 

Armed  in  scale — but  all  forgot 

When  the  frozen  winds  were  stirred. 
Nature,  who  doth  clothe  the  bird, 

Should  have  hid  thee  in  the  earth. 
Till  the  cuckoo's  song  was  heard, 

And  the  Spring  let  loose  her  mirth. 

Nature— deep  and  mystic  word  ! 

Mighty  mother,  still  unknown ! 
Thou  didst  sure  the  snowdrop  gird 

With  an  armor  all  thine  own  ! 

Thou,  who  sent'st  it  forth  alone 
To  the  cold  and  sullen  season, 

(Like  a  thought  at  random  thrown), 
Sent  it  thus  for  some  grave  reason  ! 

If  'twere  but  to  pierce  the  mind 

With  a  single,  gentle  thought. 
Who  shall  deem  thee  harsh  or  blind. 

Who  that  thou  hast  vainly  wrought  ? 

Hoard  the  gentle  virtue  caught 
From  the  snowdrop — reader  wise ! 

Good  is  good,  wherever  taught, 
On  the  ground  or  in  the  skies ! 
Bryan  W.  Procter,  {Barry  Cornwall.) 


0 


THE  SNOW  STORM. 

NNOUNCED  by  all  the  trumpets  of  the  sky, 
Arrives  the  snow,  and  driving  o'er  the  fields. 
Seems  nowhere  to  alight  :  the  whited  air 
Hides  hills  and  woods,  the    river  and  the 
heaven, 
And  veils  the  farm-house  at  the  garden's  end. 
The  sled  and  traveler  stopped,  the  courier's  feet 
Delayed,  all  friends  shut  out,  the  housemates  sit 
Around  the  radiant  fire-place,  enclosed 


In  a  tumultuous  privacy  of  storm. 

Come  see  the  north-wind's  masonry. 
Out  of  an  unseen  quarry  evermore 
Furnished  with  tile,  the  fierce  artificer 
Curves  his  white  bastions  with  projected  roof 
Round  every  windward  stake,  or  tree,  or  door. 
Speeding,  the  myriad-handed,  his  wild  world 
So  fanciful,  so  savage,  nought  cares  he 
For  number  or  proportion.     Mockingly 
On  coop  or  kennel  he  hangs  Parian  wreaths  ; 
A  swan  like  form  invests  the  hidden  thorn  ; 
Fills  up  the  farmer's  lane  from  wall  to  wall, 
Maugre  the  farmer's  sighs,  and  at  the  gate 
A  tapering  turret  overtops  the  work. 
And  when  his  hours  are  numbered,  and  the  world 
Is  all  his  own,  retiring,  as  he  were  not, 
Leaves,  when  tho  sun  appears,  astonished  art 
To  mimic  in  slow  structures,  stone  by  stone, 
Built  in  an  age,  the  mad  wind's  night-work, 
The  frolic  architecture  of  the  snow. 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson. 


-"Hurrah!" 


IT  SNOWS. 

_  T  snows  !  "  cries  the  schoolboy- 
*  •  •©•  and  his  shout 

Is  ringing  through  the  parlor  and  hall. 
While  swift  as  the  wing  of  a  swallow,  he's 
out, 
And  his  playmates  have  answered  his  call : 
It  makes  the  heart  leap  but  to  witness  their  joy — 

Proud  wealth  has  no  pleasures,  I  trow. 
Like  the  rapture  that  throbs  in  the  pulse  of  the  boy, 

As  he  gathers  his  treasures  of  snow  ; 
Then  lay  not  the  trappings  of  gold  on  thine  heirs. 
While  health  and  the  riches  of  nature  are  theirs. 

•'It  snows!"  sighs  the   imbecile — "Ah!"  and  his 
breath 

Comes  heavy,  as  clogged  with  a  weight ; 
While  from  the  pale  aspect  of  nature  in  death, 

He  turns  to  the  blaze  of  his  grate  : 
And  nearer,  and  nearer,  his  soft-cushioned  chair 

Is  wheeled  tow'rds  the  life-giving  flame — 
He  dreads  a  chill  puff"  of  the  snow-burdened  air, 

Lest  it  wither  his  delicate  frame  : 
Oh,  small  is  the  pleasure  existence  can  give. 
When  the  fear  we  shall  die  only  proves  that  we  live  ! 

"It  snows!"  cries  the  traveler — "Ho!"  and    the 
word 
Has  quickened  his  steed's  lagging  pace ; 
The  wind  rushes  by,  but  its  howl  is  unheard — 

Unfelt  the  sharp  drift  in  his  face  ; 
For  bright  through  the  tempest  his  own  home  ap- 
peared— 
Ay,  though  leagues  intervened,  he  can  see  ; 
There's  the  clear,  glowing  hearth,  and  the  table  pre- 
pared, 
And  his  wife  with  their  babes  at  her  knee. 


BEAUTIES  OF   NATURE. 


137 


Blest  thought !  how  it  lightens  the  grief-laden  hour, 
That  those  we  love  dearest  are  safe  from  its  power  ! 

"It  snows  !' cries  the  belle — "Dear,  how  lucky!" 
and  turns 

From  her  mirror  to  watch  the  flakes  fall ; 
Like  the  first  rose  of  summer,  her  dimpled  cheek  burns, 

While  musing  on  sleigh-ride  and  ball : 
There  are  visions  of  conquest,  of  splendor,  and  mirth, 

Floating  over  each  drear  winter's  day  ; 
But  the  tintings  of  hope,  on  this  storm-beaten  earth. 

Will  melt,  like  the  snow-flakes,  away  ; 
Turn,  turn  thee  to  heaven,  fair  maiden,  for  bliss  ; 
That  world  has  a  fountain  ne'er  opened  in  this. 

"  It  snows  !"  cries  the  widow — "O  God!  "and  her 
sighs 
Have  stifled  the  voice  of  her  prayer  ; 
Its  burden  ye'U  read  in  her  tear-swollen  eyes. 

On  her  cheek,  sunk  with  fasting  and  care. 
'Tis  night — and  her  fatherless  ask  her  for  bread — 

But  "He  gives  the  young  ravens  their  food," 
And  she  trusts,  till  her  dark  heart  adds  horror  to 
dread, 
And  she  lays  on  her  last  chip  of  wood. 
Poor  sufferer  !  that  sorrow  thy  God  only  knows — 
'Tis  a  pitiful  lot  to  be  poor  when  it  snows  ! 

Sarah  Josepha  Hale. 


P 


THE  CRICKETS. 

IPE,  little  minstrels  of  the  waning  year, 
In  gentle  concert  pipe  ! 
Pipe  the  warm  noons ;   the  mellow  harvest 
near ; 
The  apples  dropping  ripe  ; 

The  tempered  sunshine,  and  the  softened  shade  ; 

The  trill  of  lonely  bird  ; 
The  sweet,  sad  hush  on  nature's  gladness  laid  ; 

The  sounds  through  silence  heard  ! 

Pipe  tenderly  the  passing  of  the  year ; 

The  summer's  brief  reprieve  ; 
The  dry  husk  rustling  round  the  yellow  ear ; 

The  chill  of  morn  and  eve  ! 
Pipe  the  untroubled  trouble  of  the  year  ; 

Pipe  low  the  painless  pain  ; 
Pipe  your  unceasing  melancholy  cheer ; 

The  year  is  in  the  wane. 

Harriet  McEwen  Kimball. 


SNOW-FLAKES. 

UT  of  the  bosom  of  the  air, 

Out  of  the  cloud-folds  of  her  garments 
shaken. 
Over  the  woodlands  brown  and  bare, 
Over  the  harvest-fields  forsaken, 
Silent  and  soft  and  slow 
Descends  the  snow. 


Even  as  our  cloudy  fancies  take 

Suddenly  shape  in  some  divine  expression, 
Even  as  the  troubled  heart  doth  make 
In  the  white  countenance  confession, 
The  troubled  sky  reveals 
The  grief  it  feels. 

This  is  the  poem  of  the  air. 

Slowly  in  silent  syllables  recorded  ; 
This  is  the  secret  of  despair, 
Long  in  its  cloudy  bosom  hoarded. 
Now  whispered  and  revealed 
To  wood  and  field. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


THE  SLEIGH  RIDE. 

N  January,  when  down  the  dairy  the  cream  and 
clabber  freeze, 
When  snow-drifts  cover  the  fences  over,    we 
farmers  take  our  ease. 
At  night  we  rig  the  team,  and  bring  the  cutter  out ; 
Then  fill  it,  fill  it,  fill  it,   fill  it,  and  heap  the  furs 
about. 

Here  friends  and  cousins  dash  up  by  dozens,  and 

sleighs  at  least  a  score  ; 
There  John  and  Molly,  behind,  are  jolly — Nell  rides 

with  me,  before. 
All  down  the  village  street  we  range  us  in  a  row : 
Nowjingle.jingle,  jingle,  jingle,  and  over  the  crispy 

snow ! 

The  windows  glisten,  the  old  folks  listen  to  hear  the 

sleigh-bells  pass  ; 
The  fields  grow  whiter,  the  stars  are  brighter,  the 

road  as  smooth  as  glass. 
Our  muffled  faces  bum,  the  clear  north  wind  blows 

cold. 
The  girls  all  nestle,  nestle,  nestle,  each  in  her  lover's 

hold. 

Through  bridge  and  gateway  we're  shooting  straight- 
way, their  toll-man  was  too  slow ! 

He'll  listen  after  our  song  and  laughter  as  over  the 
hill  we  go. 

The  girls  cry,  "Fie!  for  shame  !"  their  cheeks  and 
lips  are  red. 

And  so  with  kisses,  kisses,  kisses,  they  take  the  toll 
instead. 

Still  follow,  follow  !  across  the  hollow  the  tavern 

fronts  the  road. 
Whoa,  now  !  all  steady  !  the  host  is  ready— he  knows 

the  country  mode  ! 
The  irons  are  in  the  fire,  the  hissing  flip  is  got ; 
So  pour   and   sip  it,  sip  it,  sip  it,  and  sip  it    while 

'tis  hot. 

Push  back  the  tables,  and  from  the  stables  bring  Tom, 
the  fiddler,  in ; 


138 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


All  take  your  places,  and  make  your  graces,  and  let 

the  dance  begin. 
The  girls  are  beating  time  to  hear  the  music  sound ; 
Now  foot  it,  foot  it,  foot  it,  foot  it,  and  swing  your 

partners  round. 

Last  couple  toward  the  left !  all  forward  !  cotillion's 
through,  let's  wheel : 

First  tune  the  fiddle,  then  down  the  middle  in  old  Vir- 
ginia reel. 

Play  monkey  musk  to  close,  then  take  the  "long 
chass^," 

While  in  to  supper,  supper,  supper,  the  landlord  leads 
the  way. 

The  bells  are  ringing,  the  hostlers  bringing  the  cutters 
up  anew  ; 

The  beasts  are  neighing,  too  long  we're  staying,  the 
night  is  halfway  through. 

Wrap  close  the  buffalo  robes,  we're  all  aboard  once 
more  ; 

Now  jingle,  jingle,  jingle,  jingle,  away  from  the  tav- 
ern door. 

So  follow,  follow,  by  hill  and   hollow,  and  swiftly 

homeward  glide. 
What  midnight  splendor  !  how  warm  and  tender  the 

maiden  by  your  side  ! 
The  sleighs  drop  far  apart,  her  words  are  soft  and 

low ; 
Now,  if  you  love  her,  love  her,  love  her,  'tis  safe  to 

tell  her  so. 

Edmund  Clarence  Stedman. 


CHRISTMAS  IN  THE  WOODS. 

ROM  under  the  boughs  in  the  snow-clad  wood 
The  merle  and  the  mavis  are  peeping, 
Alike  secure  from  the  wind  and  the  flood, 
Yet  a  silent  Christmas  keeping. 
Still  happy  are  they. 
And  their  looks  are  gay, 
And  they  frisk  it  from  bough  to  bough  ; 
Since  berries  bright  red 
Hang  over  their  head, 
A  right  goodly  feast,  I  trow. 

There,  under  the  boughs,  in  their  wintry  dress, 
,     Haps  many  a  tender  greeting  ; 
Blithe  hearts  have  met,  and  the  soft  caress 
Hath  told  the  delight  of  meeting. 

Though  winter  hath  come 
To  his  woodland  home. 
There  is  mirth  with  old  Christmas  cheer. 
For  'neath  the  light  snow 
Is  the  fruit-fraught  bough, 
And  each  to  his  love  is  near. 

Yes !  under  the  boughs,  scarce  seen,  nestle  they. 
Those  children  of  song  together — 


As  blissful  by  night,  as  joyous  by  day, 
'Mid  the  snows  and  the  wintry  weather. 
For  they  dream  of  spring, 
And  the  songs  they'll  sing. 
When  the  flowers  bloom  again  in  the  mead ; 
And  mindful  are  they 
Of  those  blossoms  gay, 
Which  have  brought  them  to-day 
Such  help  in  their  time  of  need  ! 

Harrison  Weir. 


MORNING. 

'  N  the  bam  the  tenant  cock. 

Close  to  partlet  perched  on  high, 
Briskly  crows  (the  shepherd's  clock  1) 
Jocund  that  the  morning's  nigh. 

Swiftly  from  the  mountain's  brow. 
Shadows,  nursed  by  night,  retire : 

And  the  peeping  sunbeam  now. 
Paints  with  gold  the  village  spire. 

Philomel  forsakes  the  thorn, 
Plaintive  where  she  prates  at  night, 

And  the  lark,  to  meet  the  morn, 
Soars  beyond  the  shepherd's  sight. 

From  the  balmy  sweets,  uncloyed, 
(Restless  till  her  task  be  done), 

Now  the  busy  bee's  employed 
Sipping  dew  before  the  sun. 

Trickling  through  the  creviced  rock, 
Where  the  limpid  stream  distils. 

Sweet  refreshment  waits  the  flock 
When  'tis  sun-drove  from  the  hills. 

Colin 's  for  the  promised  corn 
(Ere  the  harvest  hopes  are  ripe). 

Anxious  ; — whilst  the  huntsman's  horn, 
Boldly  sounding,  drowns  his  pipe. 

Sweet,  O  sweet,  the  warbling  throng 
On  the  white  emblossomed  spray ! 

Nature's  universal  song 
Echoes  to  the  rising  day. 

John  Cunningham. 

A  CALM  EVE. 

y^  OOK  on  these  waters,  with  how  soft  a  kiss 
•®'  r     They  woo  the  pebbled  shore  !  then  steal  away, 
-ii^     Like  wanton  lovers — but  to  come  again, 

And  die  in  music  !    There,  the  bending  skies 
See  all  their  stars — and  the  beach-loving  trees. 
Osiers  and  willows,  and  the  watery  flowers. 
That  wreathe  their  pale  roots  round  the  ancient  stones. 
Make  pictures  of  themselves  1 

George  Croly, 


BEAUTIES   OF  NATURE. 


IZO 


CELESTIAL  LIGHT. 

'  HUS  with  the  year 

Seasons  return,  but  not  to  me  returns 
Day,  or  the  sweet  approach  of  even  or  morn, 
Or  sight  of  vernal  bloom,  or  summer's  rose. 
Or  flocks,  or  herds,  or  human  face  divine  ; 
But  cloud,  instead,  and  ever-during  dark, 
Surrounds  me,  from  the  cheerful  ways  of  men. 

Cut  off,  and  for  the  book  of  knowledge  fair 
Presented  with  a  universal  blank 
Of  nature's  works,  to  me  expunged  and  rased, 
•And  wisdom  at  one  entrance  quite  shut  out. 
So  much  the  rather  thou,  celestial  light, 
Shine  inward,  and  the  mind  through  all  her  powers 
Irradiate  ;  there  plant  eyes,  all  mist  from  thence 
Purge  and  disperse,  that  I  may  see  and  tell 
Of  things  invisible  to  mortal  sight. 

John  Milton. 


iIj 


THE  TWO  APRIL  MORNINGS. 

E  walked  along,  while  bright  and  red 

Uprose  tlie  morning  sun  ; 

And  Matthew  stopped,  he  looked,  and  said 
"  The  will  of  God  be  done  ! " 


A  village  schoolmaster  was  he. 
With  hair  of  glittering  gray; 
As  blithe  a  man  as  you  could  see 
On  a  spring  holiday. 

And  on  that  morning,  through  the  grass 

And  by  the  steaming  rills, 
We  traveled  merrily,  to  pass 
A  day  among  the  hills. 

"Our  work,"  said  I,  "was  well  begun; 
Then,  from  thy  breast  what  thought. 
Beneath  so  beautiful  a  sun. 
So  sad  a  sigh  has  brought  ?  " 

A  second  time  did  Matthew  stop  ; 
And  fixing  still  his  eye 
Upon  the  eastern  mountain-top, 
To  me  he  made  reply  : 

"  Yon  cloud  with  that  long  purple  cleft 
Brings  fresh  into  my  mind 
A  day  like  this,  which,  I  have  left 
Full  thirty  years  behind. 

And  just  above  yon  slope  of  corn 
Such  colors,  and  no  other, 
Were  in  the  sky  that  April  mom 
Of  this  the  very  brother. 

With  rod  and  line  I  sued  the  sport 
Which  that  sweet  season  gave, 
And  coming  to  the  church  st(>pped  short 
Beside  my  daughter's  grave. 


Nine  summers  had  she  scarcely  seen. 
The  pride  of  all  the  vale  ; 
And  then  she  sang  : — she  would  have  been 
A  very  nightingale. 

Six  feet  in  earth  my  Emma  lay  ; 
And  yet  I  loved  her  more — 
For  so  it  seemed — than  till  that  day 
I  e'er  had  loved  before. 

And  turning  from  her  grave,  I  met 
Beside  the  churchyard  yew 
A  blooming  girl,  whose  hair  was  wet 
With  points  of  morning  dew. 

A  basket  on  her  head  she  bare  ; 
Her  brow  was  smooth  and  white  : 
To  see  a  child  so  very  fair. 
It  was  a  pure  delight ! 

No  fountain  from  its  rocky  cave 
E'er  tripped  with  foot  so  free ; 
She  seemed  as  happy  as  a  wave 
That  dances  on  the  sea. 

There  came  from  me  a  sigh  of  pain 
Which  I  could  ill  confine  ; 
I  looked  at  her,  and  looked  again  : 
And  did  not  wish  her  mine  ! " 

— Matthew  is  in  his  grave,  yet  now 
Methinks  I  see  him  stand, 
As  at  that  moment,  with  a  bough 
Of  wilding  in  his  hand. 

William  Wordsworth. 


© 


DAY  IS  DYING. 

AY  is  dying  !     Float,  O  song, 
Down  the  westward  river. 
Requiem  chanting  to  the  day — 
Day,  the  mighty  giver. 

Pierced  by  shafts  of  time  he  bleeds. 

Melted  rubies  sending 
Through  the  river  and  the  sky, 

Earth  and  heaven  blending ; 

All  the  long-drawn  earthly  banks 

Up  to  cloud-land  lifting : 
Slow  between  them  drifts  the  swan, 

'Twixt  two  heavens  drifting. 

Wings  half  open,  like  a  flower 

Inly  deeper  flushing, 
Neck  and  breast  as  virgin's  pure — 

Virgin  proudly  blushing. 

Day  is  dying  !     Float,  O  swan, 

Down  the  ruby  river ; 
Follow,  song,  in  requiem 

To  the  mighty  giver. 
Marian  Evans  Lewes  Cross  ( George  Eliof). 


140 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


(H 


ADVANCING  MORN. 

'S  when,  to  one,  who  long  hath  watched  the 
morn 
Advancing,  slow  forewarns  th'    approach  of 
day 
(What  time  the  young  and  flowery-kirtled  May 
Decks  the  green  hedge,  and  dewy  grass  unshorn 
With  cowslips  pale,  and  many  a  whitening  thorn) ; 
And  now  the  sun  comes  forth,  with  level  ray 
Gilding  the  high-wood  top,  and  mountain  gray  ; 
And,  as  he  climbs,  the  meadows  'gins  adorn  ; 
The  rivers  glisten  to  the  dancing  beam, 

The  awakened  birds  begin  their  amorous  strain, 
And  hill  and  vale  with  joy  and  fragrance  teem  ; 
Such  is  the  sight  of  thee  ;  thy  wished  return 
To  eyes,  like  mine,  that  long  have  waked  to  mourn. 
That  long  have  watched  for  light,  and  wept  in  vain ! 
John  Bampfylde. 

A  WINTER  LANDSCAPE. 

'  HROUGH  the  hushed  air  the  whit'ning  shower 
descends, 
At  first  thin-wavering,  till  at  last  the  flakes 
'f'        Fall  broad  and  wide,  and  fast,  dimming  the 
day 
With  a  continual  flow.    The  cherished  fields 
Put  on  their  winter  robe  of  purest  white  : 
'Tis  brightness  all,  save  where  the  new  snow  melts 
Along  the  mazy  current.     Low  the  woods 
Bow  their  hoar  head  ;  and  ere  the  languid  sun. 
Faint  from  the  west,  emits  his  evening  ray, 
Earth's  universal  face,  deep  hid,  and  chill. 
Is  one  white  dazzling  waste,  that  buries  wide 
The  works  of  man.    Drooping,  the  laborer-ox 
Stands  covered  o'er  with  snow,  and  then  demands 
The  fruit  of  all  his  toil.    The  fowls  of  heaven. 
Tamed  by  the  cruel  season,  crowd  around 
The  winnowing  store,  and  claim  the  little  boon 
Which  Providence  assigns  them.     One  alone. 
The  redbreast,  sacred  to  the  household  gods, 
Wisely  regardful  of  the  embroiling  sky. 
In  joyless  fields  and  thorny  thickets,  leaves 
His  shivering  mates,  and  pays  to  trusted  man 
His  annual  visit.    Half  afraid,  he  first 
Against  the  window  beats  ;  then,  brisk,  alights 
On  the  warm  hearth  ;  then  hopping  o'er  the  floor, 
Eyes  all  the  smiling  family  askance, 
And  pecks,  and  starts,  and  wonders  where  he  is  : 
Till  more  familiar  grown,  the  table  crumbs 
Attract  his  slender  feet.     The  foodless  wilds 
Pour  forth  their  brown  inhabitants.    The  hare, 
Though  timorous  of  heart,  and  hard  beset 
By  death  in  various  forms,  dark  snares  and  dogs, 
And  more  unpitying  men,  the  garden  seeks, 
Urged  on  by  fearless  want.     The  bleating  kine 
Eye  the  bleak  heaven,  and  next,  the  glist'ning  earth. 
With  looks  of  dumb  despair  ;  then,  sad  dispersed, 


Dig  for  the  whithered  herb  through  heaps  of  snow. 

As  thus  the  snows  arise,  and  foul  and  fierce 
All  winter  drives  along  the  darkened  air, 
In  his  own  loose  revolving  fields  the  swain 
Disastered  stands  ;  sees  other  hills  ascend, 
Of  unknown  joyless  brow,  and  other  scenes, 
Of  horrid  prospect,  shag  the  trackless  plain  ; 
Nor  finds  the  river  nor  the  forest,  hid 
Beneath  the  formless  wild  ;  but  wanders  on 
From  hill  to  dale,  still  more  and  more  astray, 
Impatient  flouncing  through  the  drifted  heaps, 
Stung  with  the  thoughts  of  home ;   the  thoughts  of 

home 
Rush  on  his  nerves,  and  call  their  vigor  forth 
In  many  a  vain  attempt.     How  sinks  his  soul ! 
What  black  despair,  what  horror,  fills  his  heart ! 
When  for  the  dusky  spot  which  fancy  feigned, 
His  tufted  cottage  rising  through  the  snow. 
He  meets  the  roughness  of  the  middle  waste. 
Far  from  the  track  and  blessed  abode  of  man ; 
While  round  him  night  resistless  closes  fast. 
And  every  tempest  howling  o'er  his  head 
Renders  the  savage  wilderness  more  wild. 
Then  throng  the  busy  shapes  into  his  mind, 
Of  covered  pits,  unfathomably  deep, 
A  dire  descent !  beyond  the  power  of  frost ; 
Of  faithless  bogs  ;  of  precipices  huge 
Smoothed  up  with  snow ;  and  what  is  land  unknown, 
What  water  of  the  still  unfrozen  spring. 
In  the  loose  marsh  or  solitary  lake, 
Where  the  fresh  fountain  from  the  bottom  boils. 
These  check  his  fearful  steps,  and  down  he  sinks 
Beneath  the  shelter  of  the  shapeless  drift. 
Thinking  o'er  all  the  bitterness  of  death. 
Mixed  with  the  tender  anguish  nature  shoots 
Through  the  wrung  bosom  of  the  dying  man. 
His  wife,  his  children,  and  his  friends,  unseen. 
In  vain  for  him  the  officious  wife  prepares 
The  fire  fair  blazing,  and  the  vestment  warm  : 
In  vain  his  little  children,  peeping  out 
Into  the  mingling  storm,  demand  their  sire 
With  tears  of  artless  innocence.    Alas  ! 
Nor  wife  nor  children  more  shall  he  behold. 
Nor  friends,  nor  sacred  home.     On  every  nerve 
The  deadly  winter  seizes,  shuts  up  sense. 
And  o'er  his  inmost  vitals  creeping  cold. 
Lays  him  along  the  snows  a  stiffened  corse. 
Stretched  out,  and  bleaching  in  the  northern  blast. 

James  Thomson. 

A  HYMN  TO  THE  SEASONS. 

*^— 'HESE,  as  they  change.  Almighty  Father,  these 
Are  but  the  varied  God.     The  rolling  year 
Is  full  of  thee.     Forth  in  the  pleasing  spring 
"f        Thy  beauty  walks,  thy  tenderness  and  love. 
Wide  flush  the  fields  ;  the  softening  air  is  balm  ; 
Echo  the  mountains  round  ;  the  forest  smiles  ; 
And  every  sense,  and  every  heart,  is  joy. 


BEAUTIES  OF   NATURE. 


141 


Then  comes  thy  glory  in  the  summer  months, 
With  light  and  heat  refulgent.     Then  thy  sun 
Shoots  full  perfection  through  the  swelling  year : 
And  oft  thy  voice  in  dreadful  thunder  speaks  ; 
And  oft  at  dawn,  deep  noon,  or  falling  eve. 
By  brooks  and  groves,  in  hollow-whispering  gales. 
Thy  bounty  shines  in  autumn  unconfined. 
And  spreads  a  common  feast  for  all  that  lives. 
In  winter  awful  thou  !  with  clouds  and  storms 
Around  thee  thrown,  tempest  o'er  tempest  rolled, 
Majestic  darkness  !  on  the  whirlwind's  wing. 
Riding  sublime,  thou  bidst  the  world  adore. 
And  humblest  nature  with  thy  northern  blast. 
Mysterious  round  !  what  skill,  what  force  divine, 
Deep  felt,  in  these  appear !  a  simple  train. 
Yet  so  delightful  mixed,  with  such  kind  art, 
Such  beauty  and  beneficence  combined  ; 
Shade,  unperceived,  so  softening  into  shade  ; 
And  all  so  forming  an  harmonious  whole  ; 
That,  as  they  still  succeed,  they  ravish  still. 
But  wandering  oft,  with  brute  unconscious  gaze, 
Man  marks  not  thee,  marks  not  the  mighty  Hand, 
That,  ever  busy,  wheels  the  silent  spheres  ; 
Works  in  the  secret  deep  ;  shoots,  steaming,  thence 
The  fair  profusion  that  o'erspreads  the  spring  : 
Flings  from  the  sun  direct  the  flaming  day  ; 
Feeds  every  creature  ;  hurls  the  tempests  forth  ; 
And,  as  on  earth  this  grateful  change  revolves, 
With  transf>ort  touches  all  the  springs  of  life. 

James  Thomson. 


THE  ADVENT  OF  EVENING, 

'HE  fire-flies  freckle  every  spot 

With  fickle  light  that  gleams  and  dies  ; 
The  bat,  a  wavering,  soundless  blot, 
'f  The  cat,  a  pair  of  prowling  eyes. 

Still  the  sweet,  fragrant  dark  o'erflows 
The  deepening  air  and  darkening  ground ; 

By  its  rich  scent  I  trace  the  rose, 
The  viewless  beetle  by  its  sound. 

The  cricket  scrapes  its  rib-like  bars  ; 

The  tree-toad  purrs  in  whirring  tone  ; 
And  now  the  heavens  are  set  with  stars, 

And  night  and  quiet  reign  alone. 

Alfred  B.  Street. 


MOONRISE. 

HAT  stands  upon  the  highland? 
What  walks  across  the  rise, 
As  though  a  starry  island 
Were  sinking  down  the  skies? 

What  makes  the  trets  so  golden  ! 
What  decks  the  mountain  side, 


Like  a  veil  of  silver  folden 
Round  the  white  brow  of  a  bride? 

The  magic  moon  is  breaking, 

Like  a  conqueror,  from  the  east, 
The  waiting  world  awaking 

To  a  golden  fairy  feast. 

She  works,  with  touch  ethereal, 

By  changes  strange  to  see, 
The  cypress,  so  funereal, 

To  a  lightsome  fairy  tree  ; 

Black  rocks  to  marble  turning. 

Like  palaces  of  kings  ; 
On  ruin  windows  burning, 

A  festal  glory  flings  ; 

The  desert  halls  uplighting. 

While  falling  shadows  glance. 
Like  courtly  crowds  uniting 

For  the  banquet  or  the  dance ; 

With  ivory  wand  she  numbers 

The  stars  along  the  sky  ; 
And  breaks  the  billows'  slumbers 

With  a  love-glance  of  her  eye  ; 

Along  the  cornfields  dances. 

Brings  bloom  upon  the  sheaf ; 
From  tree  to  tree  she  glances. 

And  touches  leaf  by  leaf; 

Wakes  birds  that  sleep  in  shadows ; 

Through  their  half-closed  eyelids  gleams  ; 
With  her  white  torch  through  the  meadows 

Lights  the  shy  deer  to  the  streams. 

The  magic  moon  is  breaking, 

Like  a  conqueror,  from  the  east. 
And  the  joyous  world  partaking 

Of  her  golden  fairy  feast. 

Ernest  Jones. 

DOVER   CLIFF. 

eOME  on,  sir ;  here's  the  place :  stand  still !  How 
fearful 
And  dizzy  't  is,  to  cast  one's  eyes  so  low  ! 
The  crows  and  choughs  that  wing  the  midway 
air 
Show  scarce  so  gross  as  beetles :  half-way  down 
Hangs  one  that  gathers  samphire, — dreadful  trade  ! 
-  Methinks  he  seems  no  bigger  than  his  head : 
The  fishermen,  that  walk  upon  the  beach, 
Appear  like  mice ;  and  yon  tall  anchoring  bark, 
Diminished  to  her  cock ;  her  cock,  a  buoy 
Almost  too  small  for  sight :  the  murmuring  surge, 
That  on  the  unnumbered  idle  pebbles  chafes. 
Cannot  be  heard  so  high. — I'll  look  no  more ; 
Lest  my  brain  turn,  and  the  deficient  sight 
Topple  down  headlong. 

William  Shakespeare. 


142 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


A  LOWERING  EVE. 

'HERE  is  a  gloomy  grandeur  in  the  sun, 
That  levels  his  last  light  along  the  shore  ; 
The  clouds  are  rolling  downwards,  stem  and 
"f  dun  : 

The  long,  slow  wave  is  streaked  with  red,  like  gore 

On  some  vast  field  of  battle  ;  and  the  roar 

Of  wave  and  wind  comes  like  the  battle's  sound. 

And  now  the  sun  sinks  deeper ;  and  the  clouds. 
In  folds  of  sullen  fire,  still  heavier  lower. 
Till  the  whole  storm  the  shore  and  ocean  shrouds. 

George  Crolv. 


THE  TEMPESTUOUS  EVENING. 

'HERE'S  grandeur  in  this  sounding  storm, 
That  drives  the  hurrying  clouds  along, 
That  on  each  other  seem  to  throng. 
And  mix  in  many  a  varied  form  ; 
While,  bursting  now  and  then  between, 
The  moon's  dim  misty  orb  is  seen. 
And  casts  faint  glimpses  on  the  green. 

Beneath  the  blast  the  forests  bend, 
And  thick  the  branchy  ruin  lies, 
And  wide  the  shower  of  foliage  flies  ; 
The  lake's  black  waves  in  tumult  blend, 
Revolving  o'er  and  o'er  and  o'er, 
And  foaming  on  the  rocky  shore. 
Whose  caverns  echo  to  their  roar. 

The  sight  sublime  enrapts  my  thought, 
And  swift  along  the  past  it  strays. 
And  much  of  strange  event  surveys. 
What  history's  faithful  tongue  has  taught, 
Or  fancy  formed,  whose  plastic  skill 
The  page  with  fabled  change  can  fill 
Of  ill  to  good,  or  good  to  ill. 

But  can  my  soul  the  scene  enjoy, 
That  rends  another's  breast  with  pain  ? 
O  hapless  he,  who  near  the  main. 
Now  sees  its  billowy  rage  destroy  ! 
Beholds  the  foundering  bark  descend. 
Nor  knows  but  that  its  fate  may  end 
The  moments  of  his  dearest  friend  ! 

John  Scott. 


THE  MOON  WAS  A-WANING. 

'HE  moon  was  a-waning, 
The  tempest  was  over ; 
Fair  was  the  maiden, 

And  fond  was  the  lover  ; 
But  the  snow  was  so  deep 
That  his  heart  it  grew  weary  ; 


And  he  sunk  down  to  sleep, 
In  the  moorland  so  dreary. 

Soft  was  the  bed 

She  had  made  for  her  lover. 
White  were  the  sheets 

And  embroidered  the  cover ; 
But  his  sheets  are  more  white, 

And  his  canopy  grander ; 
And  sounder  he  sleeps 

Where  the  hill-foxes  wander. 

Alas,  pretty  maiden, 

What  sorrows  attend  you  ! 
I  see  you  sit  shivering, 

With  lights  at  your  window  ; 
But  long  may  you  wait 

Ere  your  arms  shall  enclose  him  ; 
For  still,  still  he  lies. 

With  a  wreath  on  his  bosom  ! 

How  painful  the  task 

The  sad  tidings  to  tell  you  ! 
An  orphan  you  were 

Ere  this  misery  befel  you  ; 
And  far  in  yon  wild. 

Where  the  dead-tapers  hover. 
So  cold,  cold  and  wan. 

Lies  the  corpse  of  your  lover  ! 

J.vMEs  Hogg. 

NIGHT. 

HESE  thoughts,  O  night  !  are  thine  ; 
From  thee   they  came  like    lovers'    secret 
sighs, 

Y        While  others  slept.     So  Cynthia,  poets  feign, 
In  shadows  veiled,  soft,  sliding  from  her  sphere, 
Her  shepherd  cheered  ;  of  her  enamored  less 
Than  I  of  thee,     And  art  thou  still  unsung. 
Beneath  whose  brow,  and  by  whose  aid,  I  sing? 
Immortal  silence  !  where  shall  I  begin  ?    . 
Were  end  ?  or  how  steal  music  from  the  spheres 
To  soothe  their  goddess  ? 

O  majestic  night ! 
Nature's  great  ancestor  !  day's  elder-born ! 
And  fated  to  survive  the  transient  sun  ! 
By  mortals  and  immortals  seen  with  awe  ! 
A  starry  crown  thy  raven  brow  adorns, 
An  azure  zone  thy  waist  ;  clouds,  in  heaven's  loom 
Wrought  through  varieties  of  shape  and  shade. 
In  ample  folds  of  drapery  divine, 
Thy  flowing  mantle  form,  and,  heaven  throughout, 
Voluminous'y  pour  thy  pompous  train  ; 
Thy  gloomy  grandeurs — nature's  most  august, 
Inspiring  aspect ! — claim  a  grateful  verse  ; 
And,  like  a  sable  curtain  starred  with  gold, 
Drawn  o'er  my  labors  past,  shall  clothe  the  scene. 

WARD  Young. 


BEAUTIES  OF   NATURE. 


143 


TO  A  STAR. 

'HOU  brightly  glittering  star  of  even, 
Thou  gem  up^n  the  brow  of  heaven  ! 
Oh  !  were  this  fluttering  spirit  free, 
f*        How  quick  'twould  spread  its  wings  to  thee  ! 

How  calmly,  brightly,  dost  thou  shine, 
Like  the  pure  lamp  in  virtue's  shrine  ! 
Sure  the  fair  world  which  thou  may'st  boast 
Was  never  ransomed,  never  lost. 

There,  beings  pure  as  heaven's  own  air, 
Their  hopes,  their  joys,  together  share  ; 
While  hovering  angels  touch  the  string. 
And  seraphs  spread  the  sheltering  wing. 

There,  cloudless  days  and  brilliant  nights, 
Illumed  by  heaven's  refulgent  lights  ; 
There,  seasons,  years,  unnoticed  roll. 
And  unregretted  by  the  soul. 

Thou  little  sparkling  star  of  even, 
Thou  gem  upon  an  azure  heaven  ! 
How  swiftly  will  I  soar  to  thee, 
When  this  imprisoned  soul  is  free  ! 

LucRETiA  Maria  Davidson. 

THE  NIGHT-FLOWERING  CEREUS. 

The  night-flowering-  cereus  is  one  of  our  most  splendid  hot- 
house plants,  and  is  a  native  of  Jamaica  and  some  other  of  the 
West  India  Islands.  Its  stem  is  creeping,  and  thickly  set  with 
spines.  The  flower  is  white,  and  very  large,  sometimes  nearly  a 
foot  in  diameter.  The  most  remarkable  circumstance  with  regard 
to  the  flower,  is  the  short  time  which  it  takes  to  expand,  and  the 
rapidity  with  which  it  decays.  It  begins  to  open  late  in  the  even- 
ing, flourishes  for  an  hour  cr  two,  then  begins  to  droop,  and  be- 
fore morning  is  completely  dead. 


n 


OW  departs  day's  gairish  light — 
Beauteous  flower,  lift  thy  head  ! 
Rise  upon  the  brow  of  night ! 
Haste,  thy  transient  lustre  shed  ! 

Night  has  dropped  her  dusky  veil — 
All  vain  thoughts  be  distant  far, 

While,  with  silent  awe,  we  hail 
Flora's  radiant  evening  star. 

See  to  life  her  beauties  start ; 

Hail !  thou  glorious,  matchless  flower  ! 
Much  thou  sayest  to  the  heart, 

In  the  solemn,  fleeting  hour. 

Ere  we  have  our  homage  paid, 
Thou  wilt  bow  thine  head  and  die  ; 

Thus  our  sweetest  pleasures  fade. 
Thus  our  brightest  blessings  fly. 

Sorrow's  rugged  stem,  like  thine, 
Bears  a  flower  thus  purely  bright ; 

Thus,  when  sunny  hours  decline, 
Friendship  sheds  her  cheering  light. 


Religion,  too,  that  heavenly  flower, 

That  joy  of  never-fading  worth. 
Waits,  like  thee,  the  darkest  hour, 

Then  puts  all  her  glories  forth. 

Then  thy  beauties  are  surpassed. 
Splendid  flower,  that  bloom'st  to  die ; 

For  friendship  and  religion  last, 
When  the  morning  beams  on  high. 

ON  RECROSSING  THE  ROCKY  MOUNTAINS 

y^  ONG  years  ago  I  wandered  here, 

•^*  [•     In  the  midsummer  of  the  year, — 

Xi"^  Life's  summer  too ; 

A  score  of  horsemen  here  we  rode. 
The  mountain  world  its  glories  showed, 
All  fair  to  view. 

These  scenes  in  glowing  colors  drest, 
Mirrored  the  life  within  my  breast, 

Its  world  of  hopes ; 
The  whispering  woods  and  fragrant  breeze 
That  stirred  the  grass  in  verdant  seas 

On  billowy  slopes. 

And  glistening  crag  in  sunlit  sky. 

Mid  snowy  clouds  piled  mountains  high, 

Were  joys  to  me ; 
My  path  was  o'er  the  prairie  wide, 
Or  here  on  grander  mountain-side, 

To  choose,  all  free. 

The  rose  that  waved  in  morning  air. 
And  spread  its  dewy  fragrance  there 

In  careless  bloom. 
Gave  to  my  heart  its  ruddiest  hue. 
O'er  my  glad  life  its  color  threw 

And  sweet  perfume. 

The  buoyant  hopes  and  busy  life 
Have  ended  all  in  hateful  strife. 

And  thwarted  aim. 
The  world's  rude  contact  killed  the  rose, 
No  more  its  radiant  color  shows 

False  roads  to  fame. 

Backward,  amidst  the  twilight  glow 
Some  lingering  spots  yet  brightly  show 

On  hard  roads  won, 
Where  still  some  grand  peaks  mark  the  way 
Touched  by  the  light  of  parting  day 

And  memor>''s  sun. 

But  here  thick  clouds  the  mountains  hide, 
The  dim  horizon  bleak  and  wide 

No  pathway  shows, 
And  rising  gusts,  and  darkening  sky, 
Tell  of  "the  night  that  cometh,"  nigh. 

The  brief  day's  close. 

John  C.  Fremont. 


144 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


THE  EVENING  STAR. 

*OW  sweet  thy  modest  light  to  view, 
Fair  star,  to  love  and  lovers  dear ! 
While  trembling  on  the  falling  dew, 
Like  beauty  shining  through  a  tear. 

Or,  hanging  o'er  that  mirror-stream. 
To  mark  that  image  trembling  there, 

Thou  seem'st  to  smile  with  softer  gleam, 
To  see  thy  lovely  face  so  fair. 

Though,  blazing  o'er  the  arch  of  night. 
The  moon  thy  timid  beams  outshine, 

As  far  as  thine  each  starry  light ; — 
Her  rays  can  never  vie  with  thine. 

Thine  are  the  soft  enchanting  hours. 
When  twilight  lingers  on  the  plain. 

And  whispers  to  the  closing  flowers 
That  soon  the  sun  will  rise  again. 

Thine  is  the  breeze  that,  murmuring  bland 

As  music,  wafts  the  lover's  sigh, 
And  bids  the  yielding  heart  expand 

In  love's  delicious  ecstasy. 

Fair  star  !  though  I  be  doomed  to  prove 
That  rapture's  tears  are  mixed  with  pain. 

Ah,  still  I  feel  'tis  sweet  to  love  ! 
But  sweeter  to  be  loved  again. 

John  Leyden. 


THE  SCENES  OF  BOYHOOD. 

IS  past !  no  more  the  summer  blooms  ! 
Ascending  in  the  rear, 
Behold  congenial  autumn  comes, 
The  sabbath  of  the  year  ! 
What  time  thy  holy  whispers  breathe, 
The  pensive  evening  shade  beneath, 

And  twilight  consecrates  the  floods  ; 
While  nature  strips  her  garment  gay, 
And  wears  the  vesture  of  decay, 
O  let  me  wander  through  the  sounding  woods  ! 

Ah  !  well-known  streams  ! — ah  !  wonted  groves. 

Still  pictured  in  my  mind  ! 
Oh  !  sacred  scene  of  youthful  loves, 

Whose  image  lives  behind  ! 
While  sad  I  ponder  on  the  past. 
The  joys  that  must  no  longer  last ; 

The  wild-flower  strown  on  summer's  bier. 
The  dying  music  of  the  grove. 
And  the  last  elegies  of  love. 
Dissolve  the  soul,  and  draw  the  tender  tear ! 
Companions  of  the  youthful  scene. 

Endeared  from  earliest  days  ! 
With  whom  I  sported  on  the  green, 

Or  roved  the  woodland  maze  ! 
Long-exiled  from  your  native  clime. 
Or  by  the  thunder-stroke  of  time 

Snatched  to  the  shadows  of  despair ; 


I  hear  your  voices  in  the  wind, 

Your  forms  in  every  walk  I  find  ; 

I  stretch  my  arms  :  ye  vanisli  into  air  ! 

My  steps,  when  innocent  and  young, 

These  fairy  paths  pursued  ; 
And  wandering  o'er  the  wild,  I  sung 

My  fancies  to  the  wood. 
I  mourned  the  linnet-lover's  fate. 
Or  turtle  from  her  murdered  mate, 

Condemned  the  widowed  hours  to  wail : 
Or  while  the  mournful  vision  rose, 
I  sought  to  weep  for  imaged  woes. 
And  sorrowed  o'er  the  plaintive  tragic  tale  I 

Yet  not  unwelcome  waves  the  wood 

That  hides  me  in  its  gloom, 
While  lost  in  melancholy  mood 

I  muse  upon  the  tomb. 
Their  chequered  leaves  the  branches  shed ; 
Whirling  in  eddies  o'er  my  head, 

They  sadly  sigh  that  winter's  near  : 
The  warning  voice  I  hear  behind. 
That  shakes  the  wood  without  a  wind. 
And  solemn  sounds  the  death-bell  of  the  year. 

Nor  will  I  court  Lethean  streams. 

The  sorrowing  sense  to  steep  ; 
Nor  drink  oblivion  of  the  themes 

On  which  I  love  to  weep. 
Belated  oft  by  fabled  rill, 
While  nightly  o'er  the  hallowed  hill 

Aerial  music  seems  to  mourn  ; 
I'll  listen  autumn's  closing  strain  ; 
Then  woo  the  walks  of  youth  again. 
And  pour  my  sorrows  o'er  the  untimely  urn  ! 

John  Logan. 

THE  SHEPHERD-SWAIN. 

HERE  lived  in  Gothic  days,  as  legends  tell, 
A  shepherd-swain  a  man  of  low  degree. 
Whose  sires,  perchance,  in  fairyland  might 
t  dwell, 

Sicilian  groves,  or  vales  of  Arcady ; 

But  he,  I  ween,  was  of  the  north  countrie  ; 

A  nation  famed  for  song,  and  beauty's  charms  ; 

Zealous,  yet  modest ;  innocent,  though  free  ; 

Patient  of  toil  ;  serene  amidst  alarms  ; 

Inflexible  in  faith  ;  invincible  in  arms. 

The  shepherd-swain,  of  whom  I  mention  made, 

On  Scotia's  mountains  fed  his  little  flock  ; 

The  sickle,  scythe,  or  plough,  he  never  swayed  ; 

An  honest  heart  was  almost  all  his  stock  ; 

His  drink  the  living  water  from  the  rock  ; 

The  milky  dams  supplied  his  board,  and  lent 

Their  kindly  fleece  to  baffle  winters  shock  ; 

And  he,  though  oft  with  dust  and  sweat  besprent. 

Did  guide  and  guard  their  wanderings,  whereso'er 

they  went. 

James  Beattie. 


BEAUTIES   OF   NATURE. 


145 


ALPINE  HEIGHTS. 

N  Alpine  heights  the  love  of  God  is  shed ; 
He  paints  the  morning  red, 
The  flowerets  while  and  blue, 
And  feeds  them  with  his  dew, 
On  Alpine  heights  a  loving  Father  dwells. 

On  Alpine  heights,  o'er  many  a  fragrant  heath, 
The  loveliest  breezes  breathe  ; 
So  free  and  pure  the  air, 
His  breath  seems  floating  there. 

On  Alpine  heights  a  loving  Father  dwells. 

On  Alpine  heights,  beneath  his  mild  blue  eye. 

Still  vales  and  meadows  lie  ; 

The  soaring  glacier's  ice 

Gleams  like  a  paradise. 
On  Alpine  heights  a  loving  Father  dwells. 

Down  Alpine  heights  the  silvery  streamlets  flow  ! 

There  the  bold  chamois  go  ; 

On  giddy  crags  they  stand. 

And  drink  from  his  own  hand. 
On  Alpine  heights  a  loving  Father  dwells. 

On  Alpine  heights,  in  troops  all  white  as  snow, 

The  sheep  and  wild  goats  go  ; 

There,  in  the  solitude. 

He  fills  their  hearts  with  food. 
On  Alpine  heights  a  loving  Father  dwells. 

On  Alpine  heights  the  herdsman  tends  his  herd  ; 

His  Shepherd  is  the  Lord  ; 

For  he  who  feeds  the  sheep 

Will  sure  his  offspring  keep. 
On  Alpine  heights  a  loving  Father  dwells. 

Frederick  W.  Krummachkr. 


TO  A  COMET. 

'OW  lovely  is  this  wildered  scene, 

As  twilight  from  her  vaults  so  blue 
Steals  soft  o'er  Yarrow's  mountains  green. 
To  sleep  embalmed  in  midnight  dew ! 

All  hail,  ye  hills,  whose  towering  height, 
Like  shadows,  scoops  the  yielding  sky  ! 

And  thou,  mysterious  guest  of  night, 
Dread  traveler  of  immensity  I 

Stranger  of  heaven  !  I  bid  thee  hail ! 

Shred  from  the  pall  of  glory  riven, 
That  flashest  in  celestial  gale, 

Broad  pennon  of  the  King  of  heaven  I 

Art  thou  the  flag  of  woe  and  death, 
From  angel's  ensign-staff  unfurled  ? 

Art  thou  the  standard  of  his  wrath 
Waved  o'er  a  sordid  sinful  world  ? 

No,  from  that  pure  pellucid  beam, 
That  erst  o'er  plains  of  Bethlehem  shone, 
(10) 


No  latent  evil  we  can  deem. 
Bright  herald  of  the  eternal  throne ! 

Whate'er  portends  thy  front  of  fire, 
Thy  streaming  locks  so  lovely  pale — 

Or  peace  to  man,  or  judgments  dire, 
Stranger  of  heaven,  I  bid  thee  hail ! 

Where  hast  thou  roamed  these  thousand  years  ? 

Why  sought  these  polar  paths  again. 
From  wilderness  of  glowing  spheres. 

To  fling  thy  vesture  o'er  the  wain  ? 

And  when  thou  scalest  the  milky  way, 

And  vanishest  from  human  view, 
A  thousand  worlds  shall  hail  thy  ray 

Through  wilds  of  yon  empyreal  blue  ! 

Oh  !  on  that  rapid  prow  to  glide  ! 

To  bail  the  boundless  skies  with  thee. 
And  plow  the  twinkling  stars  aside. 

Like  foam-bells  on  a  tranquil  sea  1 

To  brush  the  embers  from  the  sun, 

The  icicles  from  off  the  pole  ; 
Then  far  to  other  systems  run. 

Where  other  moons  and  planets  roll ! 

Stranger  of  heaven  !  O  let  thine  eye 
Smile  on  a  rapt  enthusiast's  dream  ; 

Eccentric  as  thy  course  on  high, 
And  airy  as  thine  ambient  beam  I 

And  long,  long  may  thy  silver  ray 

Our  northern  arch  at  eve  adorn  ; 
Then,  wheeling  to  the  east  away, 

Light  the  gray  portals  of  the  morn  ! 

James  Hogg. 

THE  PUMPKIN. 

FRUIT  loved  by  boyhood  !  tho  old  days  re- 
calling ; 
J     When  wood-grapes  were    purpling    and 
brown  nuts  were  falling  ! 
When  wild,  ugly  faces  were  carved  in  its  skin, 
Glaring  out  through  the  dark  with  a  candle  within  ! 
When  we  laughed  round  the  corn-heap,  with  hearts 

all  in  tune, 
Our  chair  a  broad  pumpkin,  our  lantern  the  moon. 
Telling  tales  of  the  fairy  who  traveled  like  steam 
In  a  pumpkin-shell  coach,  with  two  rats  for  her  team  ! 
Then  thanks  for  thy  present ! — none  sweeter  or  better 
E'er  smoked  from  an  oven  or  circled  a  platter  ! 
Fairer  hands  never  wrought  at  a  pastry  more  fine. 
Brighter  eyes  never  watched  o'er  its  baking,  than  thine! 
And  the  prayer,  which  my  mouth  is  too  full  to  express, 
Swells  my  heart  that  thy  shadow  may  never  be  less. 
That  the  days  of  thy  lot  may  be  lengthened  below. 
And  the  fame  of  thy  worth  like  a  pumpkin- vine  grow. 
And  thy  life  be  as  sweet,  and  its  last  sunset  sky 
Golden-tinted  and  fair  as  thy  own  pumpkin-pie  ! 

John  Greenleae  Whixtier. 


146 


CROWN    JEWELS. 


TO   SENECA  LAKE. 

N  thy  fair  bosom,  silver  laice, 

The  wild  swan  spreads  his  snowy  sail, 
And  round  his  breast  the  ripples  break, 
^^  As  down  he  bears  before  the  gale. 

On  thy  fair  bosom,  waveless  stream, 

The  dipping  paddle  echoes  far, 
And  flashes  in  the  moonlight  gleam, 

And  bright  reflects  the  polar  star. 

The  waves  along  thy  pebbly  shore, 
As  blows  the  north-wind,  heave  their  foam, 

And  curl  around  the  dashing  oar, 
As  late  the  boatman  hies  him  home. 

How  sweet,  at  set  of  sun,  to  view 
Thy  golden  mirror  spreading  wide, 

And  see  the  mist  of  mantling  blue 

Float  round  the  distant  mountain's  side. 

At  midnight  hour,  as  shines  the  moon, 

A  sheet  of  silver  spreads  below, 
And  swift  she  cuts,  at  highest  noon. 

Like  clouds,  like  wreaths  of  purest  snow. 

On  thy  fair  bosom,  silver  lake, 

O,  could  I  ever  sweep  the  oar, 
When  early  birds  at  morning  wake, 

And  evening  tells  us  toil  is  o'er  ! 

James  Gates  Percival. 


u 


THE  CATARACT  OF  LODORE. 

'OW  does  the  water 

Come  down  at  Lodore !  " 
My  little  boy  asked  me 
Thus,  once  on  a  time ; 
And  moreover  he  tasked  me 
To  tell  him  in  rhyme. 
Anon  at  the  word, 
There  first  came  one  daughter, 
And  then  came  another, 
To  second  and  third 
The  request  of  their  brother. 
And  to  hear  how  the  water 
Comes  down  at  Lodore, 
With  its  rush  and  its  roar. 

As  many  a  time 
They  had  seen  it  before. 
So  I  told  them  in  rhyme. 
For  of  rhymes  I  had  store ; 
And  't  was  in  my  vocation 
For  their  recreation 
That  so  I  should  sing ; 
Because  I  was  laureate 
To  them  and  the  King, 

From  its  sources  which  well 
In  the  tarn  on  the  fell ; 
From  its  fountains 
In  the  mountains, 


Its  rills  and  its  gills ; 
Through  moss  and  through  brake. 
It  runs  and  it  creeps 
For  a  while,  till  it  sleeps 

In  its  own  little  lake. 

And  thence  at  departing, 

Awakening  and  starting, 

It  runs  through  the  reeds, 

And  away  it  proceeds, 

Through  meadow  and  glade. 

In  sun  and  in  shade. 
And  through  the  wood-shelter, 
Among  crags  in  its  flurry, 
Helter-skelter, 
Hurry-skurry. 
Here  it  comes  sparkling, 
And  there  it  lies  darkling ; 
Now  smoking  and  frothing 
Its  tumult  and  wrath  in. 
Till,  in  this  rapid  race 
On  which  it  is  bent. 
It  reaches  the  place 
Of  its  steep  descent. 

The  cataract  strong 
Then  plunges  along. 
Striking  and  raging 
As  if  a  war  waging 
Its  caverns  and  rocks  among ; 
Rising  and  leaping. 
Sinking  and  creeping. 
Swelling  and  sweeping. 
Showering  and  springing. 
Flying  and  flinging, 
Writhing  and  ringing, 
Eddying  and  whisking. 
Spouting  and  frisking, 
Turning  and  twisting. 

Around  and  around 

With  endless  rebound : 

Smiting  and  fighting, 

A  sight  to  delight  in ; 

Confounding,  astounding, 

Dizzying  and  deafening  the  ear  with  its  sound. 

Collecting,  projecting. 
Receding  and  speeding, 
And  shocking  and  rocking, 
And  darting  and  parting, 
And  threading  and  spreading, 
And  whizzing  and  hissing, 
And  dripping  and  skipping. 
And  hitting  and  splitting, 
And  shining  and  twining, 
And  rattlmg  and  battling, 
And  shaking  and  quaking, 
And  pounng  and  roaring, 
And  waving  and  raving. 
And  tossing  and  crossing. 
And  flowing  and  going. 


BEAUTIES   OF   NATURE. 


147 


And  running  and  stunning, 
And  foaming  and  roaming, 
And  dinning  and  spinning. 
And  dropping  and  hopping, 
And  working  and  jerking, 
And  guggling  and  struggling. 
And  heaving  and  cleaving, 
And  moaning  and  groaning ; 

And  glittering  and  frittering. 
And  gathering  and  feathering. 
And  whitening  and  brightening, 
And  quivering  and  shivering, 
And  hurrying  and  skurrying, 
And  thundering  and  floundering ; 

Dividing  and  gliding  and  sliding, 

And  falling  and  brawling  and  sprawling, 

And  driving  and  riding  and  striving, 

And  sprinkling  and  twinkling  and  wrinkling, 

And  sounding  and  bounding  and  rounding, 

And  bubbling  and  troubling  and  doubling, 

And  grumbling  and  rumbling  and  tumbling. 

And  clattering  and  battering  and  shattering  ; 

Retreating  and  beating  and  meeting  and  sheeting. 
Delaying  and  straying  and  playing  and  spraying. 
Advancing  and  prancing  and  glancmg  and  dancing. 
Recoiling,  turmoiling  and  toiling  and  boiling, 
And  gleaming  and  streaming  and  steaming.and  beam- 
ing, 
And  rushing  and  flushing  and  brushing  and  gushing, 
And  flapping  and  rapping  and  clapping  and  slapping, 
And.  curling  and  whirling  and  purling  and  twirling, 
And  thumping  and  plumping  and  bumping  and  jump- 
ing, 
And  dashing  and  flashing  and  splashing  and  clashing ; 
And  so  never  ending,  but  always  descending. 
Sounds  and  motions  forever  and  ever  are  blending 
All  at  once  and  all  o'er,  with  a  mighty  uproar — 
And  this  way  the  water  comes  down  at  Lodore. 

Robert  Soutiiey. 


THE  RHINE. 

'HE  castled  crag  of  Drachenfels 

Frowns  o'er  the  wide  and  winding  Rhine, 
Whose  breast  of  waters  broadly  swells 
Between  the  banks  which  bear  the  vine. 
And  hills  all  rich  with  blossomed  trees, 

And  fields  which  promise  com  and  wine. 
And  scattered  cities  crowning  these, 

Whose  far  white  walls  along  them  shine. 
Have  strewed  a  scene,  which  I  should  see 
With  double  joy,  wert  thou  with  me. 

And  peasant-girls  with  deep-blue  eyes. 
And  hands  which  offer  early  flowers. 

Walk  smiling  o'er  this  paradise  ; 
Above,  the  frequent  feudal  towers 


Through  green  leaves  lift  their  walls  of  gray. 
And  many  a  rock  which  steeply  lowers, 

And  noble  arch  in  proud  decay. 

Look  o'er  tliis  vale  of  vintage-bowers  ; 

But  one  thing  want  these  banks  of  Rhine — 
Thy  gentle  hand  to  clasp  in  mine  ! 

I  send  the  lilies  given  to  me. 

Though  long  before  thy  hand  they  touch 
I  know  that  they  must  withered  be — 

But  yet  reject  them  not  as  such  ; 
For  I  have  cherished  them  as  dear. 

Because  they  yet  may  meet  thine  eye, 
And  guide  thy  soul  to  mine  e'en  here. 

When  thou  behold'st  them  drooping  nigh. 
And  knowest  them  gathered  by  the  Rhine, 
And  offered  from  my  heart  to  thine  ! 

The  river  nobly  foams  and  flows, 

The  charm  of  this  enchanted  ground. 
And  all  its  thousand  turns  disclose 

Some  fresher  beauty  varj'ing  round  : 
The  haughtiest  breast  its  wish  might  bound 

Through  life  to  dwell  delighted  here  ; 
Nor  could  on  earth  a  spot  be  found 

To  nature  and  to  me  so  dear, 
Could  thy  dear  eyes  in  following  mine 

Still  sweeten  more  these  banks  of  Rhine  ! 

Lord  Byron. 


SONG  OF  THE  RIVER 

LEAR  and  cool,  clear  and  cool. 
By  laughing  shallow  and  dreaming  pool ; 
Cool  and  clear,  cool  and  clear, 
By  shining  shingle  and  foaming  weir  ; 

Under  the  crag  where  tlie  ouzel  sings, 

And  the  ivied  wall  where  the  churcli-bell  rings, 

Undefiled  for  the  undefiled  ; 

Play  by  me,  bathe  in  me,  mother  and  child  1 

Dank  and  foul,  dank  and  foul. 

By  the  smoky  town  in  its  murky  cowl ; 

Foul  and  dank,  foul  and  dank, 

By  wharf,  and  sewer,  and  slimy  bank; 

Darker  and  darker  the  further  I  go. 

Baser  and  baser  the  richer  I  grow  ; 

Who  dare  sport  with  the  sin-defiled? 

Shrink  from  me,  turn  from  me,  mother  and  child ! 

Strong  and  free,  strong  and  free, 

The  flood-gates  are  open,  away  to  the  sea  : 

Free  and  strong,  free  and  strong. 

Cleansing  my  streams  as  I  hurry  along 

To  the  golden  sands  and  the  leaping  bar. 

And  the  taintless  tide  that  awaits  me  afar. 

And  I  lose  myself  in  the  infinite  main. 

Like  a  soul  that  has  sinned  and  is  pardoned  again 

Undefiled  for  the  undefiled  ; 

Play  by  me,  bathe  in  me,  mother  and  child  ! 

Charles  Kingsley. 


148 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


llJ 


TWEEDSIDE. 

HAT  beauties  does  Flora  disclose  ! 

How  sweet  are  her  smiles  upon  Tweed  ! 
Yet  Mary's,  still  sweeter  than  thos2,  , 
Both  nature  and  fancy  exceed. 
Nor  daisy,  nor  sweet-blushing  rose, 

Not  all  the  gay  flowers  of  the  field, 
Not  Tweed  gliding  gently  through  those. 
Such  beauty  and  pleasure  does  yield. 

The  warblers  are  heard  in  the  grove. 

The  linnet,  the  lark,  and  the  thrush, 
The  blackbird,  and  sweet-cooing  dove, 

With  music  enchant  every  bush. 
Come,  let  us  go  forth  to  the  mead, 

Let  us  see  how  the  primroses  spring  ; 
We'll  lodge  in  some  village  on  Tweed, 

And  love  while  the  feathered  folks  sing. 

How  does  my  love  pass  the  long  day  ? 

Does  Mary  not  tend  a  few  sheep  ? 
Do  they  never  carelessly  stray. 

While  happily  she  lies  asleep  ? 
Tweed's  murmurs  should  lull  her  to  rest ; 

Kind  nature  indulging  my  bliss, 
To  relieve  the  soft  pains  of  my  breast, 

I'd  steal  an  ambrosial  kiss. 

'Tis  she  does  the  virgins  excel. 

No  beauty  with  her  may  compare  : 
Love's  graces  around  her  do  dwell ; 

She's  fairest  where  thousands  are  fair. 
Say,  charmer,  where  do  thy  flocks  stray. 

Oh  !  tell  me  at  noon  where  they  feed  ; 
Shall  I  seek  them  on  smooth-winding  Tay 

Or  the  pleasanter  banks  of  the  Tweed  ? 

William  Crawford. 


NIAGARA. 

(3"^^  LOW  on  forever,  in  thy  glorious  robe 
-^i*-     Of  terror  and  of  beauty.     Yes,  flow  on, 
M.         Unfathomed  and  resistless.     God  hath  set 
His  rainbow  on  thy  forehead,  and  the  cloud 
Mantled  around  thy  feet. — And  he  doth  give 
Thy  voice  of  thunder  power  to  speak  of  him 
Eternally, — bidding  the  lip  of  man 
Keep  silence,  and  upon  thy  rocky  altar  pour 
Incense  of  awe-struck  praise. 

The  morning  stars, 
When  first  they  sang  o'er  young  creation's  birth. 
Heard  thy  deep  anthem, — and  those  wrecking  fires 
That  wait  the  archangel's  signal  to  dissolve 
The  solid  earth,  shall  find  Jehovah's  name 
Graven,  as  with  a  thousand  diamond  spears. 
On  thme  unfathomed  page. — Each  leafy  bough 
That  hfts  itself  within  thy  proud  domain. 
Doth  gather  greenness  from  thy  living  spray, 
And  tremble  at  the  baptism. — Lo  !  yon  birds 
Do  venture  boldly  near,  bathing  their  wing 


Amid  thy  foam  and  mist. — 'Tis  meet  for  them 
To  touch  thy  garment's  hem — or  lightly  stir 
The  snowy  leaflets  of  thy  vapor  wreath — 
Who  sport  unharmed  upon  tlie  fleecy  cloud. 
And  listen  at  the  echoing  gate  of  heaven. 
Without  reproof. — But  as  for  us — it  seems 
Scarce  lawful  with  our  broken  tones  to  speak 
Familiarly  of  thee. — Methinks,  to  tint 
Thy  glorious  features  with  our  pencil's  point, 
Or  woo  thee  to  a  tablet  of  a  song. 
Were  profanation. 

Thou  dost  make  the  soul 
A  wondering  witness  of  thy  majesty ; 
And  while  it  rushes  with  delirious  joy 
To  tread  thy  vestibule,  dost  chain  its  step, 
And  check  its  rapture  with  the  humbling  view 
Of  its  own  nothingness,  bidding  it  stand 
In  the  dread  presence  of  the  Invisible, 
As  if  to  answer  to  its  God  through  thee. 

LVDLV  H.   SiGOURNEY. 


THE  FOUNTAIN. 


NTO  the  sunshine. 
Full  of  light. 
Leaping  and  flashing 
P'rom  morn  to  night ! 


Into  the  moonlight, 

Whiter  than  snow, 
Waving  so  flower-like 

When  the  winds  blow ! 

Into  the  starlight. 

Rushing  in  spray, 
Happy  at  midnight, 

Happy  by  day ! 

Ever  in  motion. 

Blithesome  and  cheery. 
Still  climbing  heavenward 

Never  a-wear}' ! 

Glad  of  all  weathers. 

Still  seeming  best, 
Upward  or  downward 

Motion  thy  rest ; 

Full  of  a  nature 

Nothing  can  tame. 
Changed  every  moment, 

Ever  the  same  ; — 

Ceaseless,  aspiring ; 

Ceaseless,  content ; 
Darkness  or  sunshine 

Thy  element. 

Glorious  fountain ! 

Let  my  heart  be 
Fresh,  changeful,  constant. 

Upward,  like  thee ! 

James  Russell  Lowell. 


BEAUTIES   OF   NATURE. 


149 


THE  FALL  OF  NIAGARA. 

'HE  thoughts  are  strange   that  crowd  into  my 
brain, 
While  I  look  upward  to  thee.     It  would  seem 
"^        As  if  God  poured  thee  from  his  hollow  hand, 
And  hung  his  bow  upon  thine  awful  front  ; 
And  spoke  in  that  loud  voice,  which  seemed  to  him 
Who  dwelt  in  Patmos  for  his  Saviour's  sake. 
The  sound  of  many  waters ;  and  had  bade 
Thy  flood  to  chronicle  the  ages  back, 
And  notch  His  ages  in  the  eternal  rocks. 

Deep  calleth  unto  deep.    And  what  are  we, 
That  hear  the  question  of  that  voice  sublime  ? 
O,  what  are  the  notes  that  ever  rung 
From  war's  vain  trumpet,  by  thy  thundering  side? 
Yea,  what  is  all  the  riot  man  can  make 
In  his  short  life,  to  thy  unceasing  roar? 
And  yet,  bold  babbler,  what  art  thou  to  Him 
Who  drowned  a  world,  and  heaped  the  waters  far 
Above  its  loftiest  mountains? — a  light  wave, 
That  breaks,  and  whispers  of  its  Maker's  might. 

John  G.  C.  Br.\inard. 


INVOCATION  TO  RAIN  IN  SUMMER. 

GENTLE,  gentle  summer  rain, 
Let  not  the  silver  lily  pine. 
The  drooping  lily  pine  in  vain 

To  feel  that  dewy  touch  of  thine — 
To  drink  thy  freshness  once  again, 
O  gentle,  gentle  summer  rain ! 

In  heat  the  landscape  quivering  lies ; 

The  cattle  pant  beneath  the  tree  ; 
Through  parching  air  and  purple  skies 

The  earth  looks  up,  in  vain,  for  thee « 
For  thee — for  thee,  it  looks  in  vain, 
O  gentle,  gentle  summer  rain. 

Come  thou,  and  brim  the  meadow  streams. 

And  soften  all  the  hills  witii  mist, 
O  falling  dew  !  from  burning  dreams 

By  thee  shall  herb  and  flower  be  kissed. 
And  earth  shall  bless  thee  yet  again, 
O  gentle,  gentle  summer  rain. 

William  Cox  Bennett. 


THE   BROOK-SIDE. 

WANDERED  by  the  brook-side, 
I  wandered  by  the  mill; 
I  could  not  hear  the  brook  flow — 
The  noisy  wheel  was  still ; 

There  was  no  burr  of  grasshopper, 

No  chirp  of  any  bird. 

But  the  beating  of  my  own  heart 

Was  all  the  sound  I  heard. 


(s 


I  sat  beneath  the  elm-tree  ; 

I  watched  the  long,  long  shade, 

And,  as  it  grew  still  longer, 

I  did  not  feel  afraid ; 

For  I  listened  for  a  footfall, 

I  listened  for  a  word — 

But  the  beating  of  my  own  heart 

Was  all  the  sound  I  heard. 

He  came  not — no,  he  came  not — 
The  night  came  on  alone — 
The  little  stars  sat  one  by  one, 
Each  on  his  golden  tlirone  ; 
The  evening  wind  passed  by  my  cheek, 
The  leaves  above  were  stirred — 
But  the  beating  of  my  own  heart 
Was  all  the  sound  I  heard. 

Fast  silent  tears  were  flowing. 
When  something  stood  behind  ; 
A  hand  was  on  my  shoulder — 
I  knew  its  touch  was  kind  : 
It  drew  me  nearer — nearer — 
We  did  not  speak  one  word. 
For  the  beating  of  our  own  hearts 
Was  all  the  sound  we  heard. 

Lord  Houghton. 


ODE  TO  LEVEN-WATER. 

N  Leven's  banks,  while  free  to  rove, 
And  tune  the  rural  pipe  to  love, 
I  envied  not  the  happiest  swain 
That  ever  trod  the  Arcadian  plain. 
Pure  stream  !  in  whose  transparent  wave 

My  youthful  limbs  I  wont  to  lave  ; 

No  torrents  stain  thy  limpid  source. 

No  rocks  impede  thy  dimpling  course. 

That  sweetly  warbles  o'er  its  bed. 

With  white,  round,  polished  pebbles  spread  ; 

While,  lightly  poised,  the  scaly  brood 

In  myriads  cleave  thy  crystal  flood  ; 

The  springing  trout  in  speckled  pride, 

The  salmon,  monarch  of  the  tide  ; 

The  ruthless  pike,  intent  on  war. 

The  silver  eel,  and  mottled  par. 

Devolving  from  thy  parent  lake, 

A  charming  maze  thy  waters  make. 

By  bowers  of  birch,  and  groves  of  pine. 

And  edges  flowered  with  eglantine. 
Still  on  thy  banks  so  gaily  green, 

May  numerous  herds  and  flocks  be  seen  : 

And  lasses  chanting  o'er  the  pail, 

And  shepherds  piping  in  the  dale  ; 

And  ancient  faith  that  knows  no  guile. 

And  industry  embrowned  with  toil ; 

And  hearts  resolved,  and  hands  prepared, 

The  blessings  they  enjoy  to  gfuard  ! 

T.  George  Smollett. 


150 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


THE  LATTER  RAIN. 

'HE  latter  rain — it  falls  in  anxious  haste 

Upon  the  sun-dried  fields  and  branches  bare, 
Loosening  with    searching    drops    the  rigid 

7  waste 

As  if  it  would  each  root's  lost  strength  repair ; 

It  pierces  chestnut-burr  and  walnut  shell  ; 

The  furrowed  fields  disclose  the  yellow  crops; 

Each  bursting  pod  of  talents  used  can  tell ; 

And  all  that  once  received  the  early  rain 

Declare  to  man  it  was  not  sent  in  vain. 

^^^  Jones  Very. 

SONG  OF  THE  BROOK. 

['  COME  from  haunts  of  coot  and  hem  ; 
?*         I  make  a  sudden  sally, 
[»     And  sparkle  out  among  the  fern, 
To  bicker  down  a  valley. 

By  thirty  hills  I  hurry  down, 

Or  slip  between  the  ridges ; 
By  twenty  thorps,  a  little  town, 

And  half  a  hundred  bridges. 

Till  last  by  Philip's  farm  I  flow 

To  join  the  brimming  river  ; 
For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 

But  I  go  on  for  ever. 

I  chatter  over  stony  ways. 

In  little  sharps  and  trebles  ; 
I  bubble  into  eddying  bays, 

I  babble  on  the  pebbles. 

With  many  a  curve  my  banks  I  fret 

By  many  a  field  and  fallow. 
And  many  a  fairy  foreland  set 

With  willow-weed  and  mallow. 

I  chatter,  chatter,  as  I  flow 

To  join  the  brimming  river  ; 
For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 

But  I  go  on  for  ever. 

I  wind  about,  and  in  and  out. 

With  here  a  blossom  sailing. 
And  here  and  there  a  lusty  trout, 

And  here  and  tliere  a  grayling ; 

And  here  and  there  a  foamy  flake 

Upon  me,  as  I  travel, 
With  many  a  silvery  waterbreak 

Above  the  golden  gravel ; 

And  draw  them  all  along,  and  flow 

To  join  the  brimming  river  ; 
For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 

But  I  go  on  for  ever. 

I  steal  by  lawns  and  grassy  plots  ; 
I  slide  by  hazel  covers ; 


I  move  the  sweet  forget-me-nots 
That  grow  for  happy  lovers. 

I  slip,  I  slide,  I  gloom,  I  glance, 
Among  my  skimming  swallows; 

I  make  the  netted  sunbeam  dance 
Against  my  sandy  shallows. 

I  murmur  under  moon  and  stars 

In  brambly  wildernesses ; 
I  linger  by  my  shingly  bars  ; 

I  loiter  round  my  cresses  ; 

And  out  again  I  curve  and  flow 

To  join  the  brimming  river  ; 
For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 

But  I  go  on  for  ever. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


LITTLE  STREAMS. 

;^  ITTLE  streams  are  light  and  shadow, 

j*     Flowing  through  the  pasture  meadow, 
«     Flowing  by  the  green  way-side, 
Through  the  forest  dim  and  wide, 

Through  the  hamlet  still  and  small — 

By  tiie  cottage,  by  the  hall, 

By  the  ruined  abbey  still ; 

Turning  here  and  there  a  mill, 

Bearing  tribute  to  the  river — 

Little  streams,  I  love  you  ever. 

Summer  music  is  there  flowing — 
Flowering  plants  in  them  are  growing ; 
Happy  life  is  in  them  all, 
Creatures  innocent  and  small ; 
Little  birds  come  down  to  drink, 
Fearless  of  their  leafy  brink  ; 
Noble  trees  beside  them  grow, 
Glooming  them  with  branches  low  ; 
And  between,  the  sunshine,  glancingi 
In  their  little  waves,  is  dancing. 

Little  streams  have  flowers  a  many, 
Beautiful  and  fair  as  any  ; 
Typha  strong,  and  green  bur-reed ; 
Willow-herb,  with  cotton-seed ; 
Arrow-head,  with  eye  of  jet ; 
And  the  water-violet. 
There  the  flowering-rush  you  meet. 
And  the  plumy  meadow-sweet ; 
And,  in  places  deep  and  stilly, 
Marble-like,  the  water-lily. 

Little  streams,  their  voices  cheery, 
Sound  forth  welcomes  to  the  weary, 
Flowing  on  from  day  to  day. 
Without  stint  and  without  stay  ; 
Here,  upon  their  flower}'  bank, 
In  the  old  time  pilgrims  drank — 


BEAUTIES  OF  NATURE. 


151 


Here  have  seen,  as  now,  pass  by, 
King-fisher,  and  dragon-fly ; 
Those  bright  things  that  have  their  dwelling, 
Where  the  little  streams  are  welling. 

Down  in  valleys  green  and  lowly. 
Murmuring  not  and  gliding  slowly ; 
Up  in  mountain-hollows  wild, 
Fretting  like  a  peevish  child ; 
Through  the  hamlet,  where  all  day 
In  their  waves  the  children  play ; 
Running  west,  or  running  east, 
Doing  good  to  man  and  beast — 
Always  giving,  weary  never. 
Little  streams,  I  love  you  ever. 

Mary  Howitt. 


THE  CATARACT  AND  THE  STREAMLET. 


n 


OBLE  the  mountain  stream, 

Bursting  in  grandeur  from  its  vantage-ground  ; 

Glory  is  in  its  gleam 
Of  briglitness — thunder  in  its  deafening  sound ! 

Mark,  how  its  foamy  spray. 
Tinged  by  the  sunbeams  with  reflected  dyes, 

Mimics  the  bow  of  day 
Arching  in  majesty  the  vaulted  skies ; 

Tlience,  in  a  summer-shower. 
Steeping  the  rocks  around — O  !  tell  me  where 

Could  majesty  and  power 
Be  clothed  in  forms  more  beautifully  fair  ? 

Yet  lovelier,  in  my  view, 
The  streamlet  flowing  silently  serene ; 

Traced  by  the  brighter  hue, 
And  livelier  growth  it  gives — itself  unseen  ! 

It  flows  through  flowery  meads, 
Gladdening  the  herds  which  on  its  margin  browse ; 

Its  quiet  beauty  feeds 
The  alders  that  o'ershade  it  with  their  boughs. 

Gently  it  murmurs  by 
The  village  churchyard :  its  low,  plaintive  tone, 

A  dirge-like  melody, 
For  worth  and  beauty  modest  as  its  own. 

More  gaily  now  it  sweeps 
By  the  small  school-house  in  the  sunshine  bright ; 

And  o'er  the  pebbles  leaps, 
Like  happy  hearts  by  holiday  made  light. 

May  not  its  course  express. 
In  characters  which  they  who  run  may  read, 

The  charms  of  gentleness. 
Were  but  its  still  small  voice  allowed  to  plead 

What  are  the  trophies  gained 
By  power,  alone,  with  all  its  noise  and  strife, 

To  that  meek  wreath,  unstained, 
Won  by  the  charities  that  gladden  life .' 


Niagara's  streams  might  fail. 
And  human  happiness  be  undistnrbed : 

But  Egypt  would  turn  pale, 
Were  her  still  Nile's  o'erflowing  bounty  curbed  ! 

Bernard  Barton. 

SHOWERS  IN  SPRING. 

*HE  north-east  spends  his  rage;  he  now,  shut  up 
Within  his  iron  cave,  the  effusive  south 
Warms  the  wide  air,   and  o'er  the  void  of 
*|*  heaven 

Breathes  the  big  clouds  with  vernal  showers  distent. 
At  first,  a  dusky  wreath  they  seem  to  rise. 
Scarce  staining  ether,  but  by  swift  degrees. 
In  heaps  on  heaps  the  doubled  vapor  sails 
Along  the  loaded  sky,  and,  mingling  deep, 
Sits  on  the  horizon  round,  a  settled  gloom ; 
Not  such  as  wintry  storms  on  mortals  shed. 
Oppressing  life ;  but  lovely,  gentle,  kind. 
And  full  of  every  hope,  of  every  joy, 
The  wish  of  nature.     Gradual  sinks  the  breeze 
Into  a  perfect  calm,  that  not  a  breath 
Is  heard  to  quiver  through  the  closing  woods. 
Or  rustling  turn  the  many  twinkling  leaves 
Of  aspen  tall.     The  uncurling  floods  diffused 
In  glassy  breadth,  seem,  through  delusive  lapse, 
Forgetful  of  their  course.     'Tis  silence  all. 
And  pleasing  expectation.    Herds  and  flocks 
Drop  the  dry  sprig,  and,  mute-imploring,  eye 
The  falling  verdure.     Hushed  in  short  suspense. 
The  plumy  people  streak  their  wings  with  oil, 
To  throw  the  lucid  moisture  trickling  off". 
And  wait  the  approaching  sign,  to  strike  at  once 
Into  the  general  choir.    Even  mountains,  vales. 
And  forests,  seem  impatient  to  demand 
The  promised  sweetness.     Man  superior  walks 
Amid  the  glad  creation,  musing  praise 
And  looking  lively  gratitude.     At  last 
The  clouds  consign  their  treasures  to  the  fields. 
And,  softly  shaking  on  the  dimpled  pool 
Prelusive  drops,  let  all  their  moisture  flow 
In  large  effusion  o'er  the  freshened  world. 
The  stealing  shower  is  scarce  to  patter  heard 
By  such  as  wander  through  the  forest  walks. 
Beneath  the  umbrageous  multitude  of  leaves. 

James  Thomson. 

THE  ANGLER'S  SONG. 

"There  is  no  life  more  pleasant  than  the  life  of  the  well-gov- 
erned angler." — Jzaai  Walion. 

HEN  first  the  flame  of  day 

Crimsons  the  sea-like  mist, 
And  from  the  valley  rolls  away 
The  haze,  by  the  sumbeam  kissed, 
Then  to  the  lonely  woods  I  pass, 

With  angling  rod  and  line. 
While  yet  the  dew  drops  in  the  grass 
Like  flashing  diamonds  shine. 


152 


CROWN   JEWELS. 


How  vast  the  mossy  forest-halls, 

Silent,  and  full  of  gloom  ! 
Through  the  high  roof  the  daybeam  falls, 

Like  torch-light  in  a  tomb. 
The  old  trunks  of  trees  rise  round 

Like  pillars  in  a  church  or  old, 
And  the  wind  fills  them  with  a  sound 

As  if  a  bell  were  tolled. 

Where  falls  the  noisy  stream. 

In  many  a  bubble  bright, 
Along  whose  grassy  margin  gleam 

Flowers  gaudy  to  the  sight, 
There  silently  I  stand, 

Watching  my  angle  play, 
And  eagerly  draw  to  the  land 

My  speckled  prey. 

Oft,  ere  the  carrion  bird  has  left 

His  eyrie,  the  dead  tree, 
Or  ere  the  eagle's  wing  hath  cleft 

The  cloud  in  heaven's  blue  sea, 
Or  ere  the  lark's  swift  pinion  speeds 

To  meet  the  misty  day, 
My  foot  hath  shaken  the  bending  reeds. 

My  rod  sought  out  its  prey. 

And  when  the  twilight,  with  a  blush 

Upon  her  cheek,  goes  by. 
And  evening's  universal  hush 

Fnls  all  the  darkened  sky. 
And  steadily  the  tapers  burn 

In  villages  far  away. 
Then  from  the  lontly  stream  I  turn 

And  from  the  forests  gray. 

Isaac  McLellan. 


HYMN  OF  NATURE. 

,OD  of  the  earth's  extended  plains  ! 

The  dark  green  fields  contented  lie  : 
The  mountains  rise  like  holy  towers. 

Where  the  man  might  commune  with  the 
sky  : 
The  tall  cliff  challenges  the  storm 
That  lowers  on  the  vale  below. 
Where  the  shaded  fountains  send  their  streams. 
With  joyous  music  in  their  flow. 

God  of  the  light  and  viewless  air! 

Where  the  summer  breezes  sweetly  flow, 
Or,  gathering  in  their  angry  might, 

The  fierce  and  wintry  tempests  blow ; 
All— from  the  evening's  plaintive  sigh. 

That  hardly  lifts  the  drooping  flower. 
To  the  wild  whirlwind's  midnight  cry — 

Bring  forth  the  language  of  Thy  power. 

God  of  the  fair  and  open  sky  ! 
How  gloriously  above  us  springs 


The  te'hted  dome,  of  heavenly  blue. 
Suspended  on  the  rainbow's  rings  ! 

Each  brilliant  star,  that  sparkles  through, 
Each  gilded  cloud,  that  wanders  free 

In  evening's  purple  radiance,  gives 
The  beauty  of  its  praise  to  Thee. 

God  of  the  rolling  orbs  above  ! 

Thy  name  is  written  clearly  bright 
In  the  warm  day's  unvarying  blaze. 

Or  evening's  golden  shower  of  light. 
For  every  fire  that  fronts  the  sun, 

And  every  spark  that  walks  alone 
Around  the  utmost  verge  of  heaven, 

Were  kindled  at  Thy  burning  throne. 

God  of  the  world  !  the  hour  must  come 

And  nature's  self  to  dust  return  ; 
Her  crumbling  altars  must  decay  ; 

Her  incense-fires  shall  cease  to  bum  ; 
But  still  her  grand  and  lovely  scenes 

Have  made  man's  warmest  praises  flow ; 
For  hearts  grow  holier  as  they  trace 

The  beauty  of  the  world  below. 

William  B.  Peabody. 


SIGNS  OF  RAIN. 

FORTY  REASONS   KOR  NOT  ACCKPTING  AN  INVITATION  OF  A  FRIBNO 
TO  MAKK  AN  EXCURSION  WITH  HIM. 

'HE  hollow  winds  begin  to  blow  ; 

2  The  clouds  look  black,  the  glass  is  low, 

3  The  soot  falls  down,  the  spaniels  sleep, 

4  And  spiders  from  their  cobwebs  peep. 
Last  night  the  sun  went  pale  to  bed, 
The  moon  in  halos  hid  her  head  ; 

7  The  boding  shepherd  heaves  a  sigh, 

8  For  see,  a  rainbow  spans  the  sky  ! 

9  The  walls  are  damp,  the  ditches  smell, 

10  Closed  is  the  pink-eyed  pimpernel. 

1 1  Hark  how  the  chairs  and  table  crack  ! 

12  Old  Betty's  nerves  are  on  the  rack  ; 

13  Loud  quacks  the  duck,  the  peacocks  cry, 

14  The  distant  hills  are  seeming  nigh, 

15  How  restless  are  the  snorting  swine  ! 

16  The  busy  flies  disturb  the  kine, 

17  Low  o'er  the  grass  the  swallow  wings, 

18  The  cricket,  too,  how  sharp  he  sings  ! 

19  Puss  on  the  hearth,  with  velvet  paws, 

20  Sits  wiping  o'er  her  whiskered  jaws ; 

21  Through  the  clear  streams  the  fishes  rise, 

22  And  nimbly  catch  the  incautious  flies. 

23  The  glow-worms,  numerous  and  light, 

24  Illumed  the  dewy  dell  last  night ; 

25  At  dusk  the  squalid  toad  was  seen, 

26  Hopping  and  crawling  o'er  the  green  ; 

27  The  whirling  dust  the  wind  obeys, 

28  And  in  the  rapid  eddy  plays ; 


BEAUTIES   OF   NATURE. 


153 


29  Tlic  frog  has  changed  his  yellow  vest, 

30  And  in  a  russet  coat  is  dressed. 

31  Though  June,  the  air  is  cold  and  still, 

32  The  mellow  blackbird's  voice  is  shrill ; 

33  My  dog,  so  altered  in  his  taste, 

34  Quits  mutton-bones  on  grass  to  feast ; 

35  And  see  yon  rooks,  how  odd  their  flight ! 

36  They  imitate  the  gliding  kite, 

37  And  seem  precipitate  to  fall, 

38  As  if  they  felt  the  piercing  ball. 

39  'T  will  surely  rain;  I  see  with  sorrow 

40  Our  jaunt  must  be  put  off  to-morrow. 

Edward  Jenner. 


^ 


BEFORE  THE  RAIN. 

E  knew  it  would  rain,  for  all  the  morn, 
A  spirit  on  slender  ropes  c.f  mist 
Was  lowering  its  golden  buckets  down 
Into  the  vapory  amethyst 

Of  marshes  and  swamps  and  dismal  fens — 
Scooping  the  dew  that  lay  in  the  flowers, 

Dipping  the  jewels  out  of  the  sea, 
To  sprinkle  them  over  the  land  in  showers. 

We  knew  it  would  rain,  for  the  poplars  showed 
The  white  of  their  leaves,  the  amber  grain 

Shrunk  in  the  wind — and  the  lightning  now 
Is  tangled  in  tremulous  skeins  of  rain. 

Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich. 


AFTER   THE    RAIN. 

'HE  rain  has  ceased,  and  in  my  room 
The  sunshine  pours  an  airy  flood  ; 
And  on  the  church's  dizzy  vane 
y         The  ancient  cross  is  bathed  in  blood. 

From  out  the  dripping  ivy-leaves, 
Antiquely  carven,  gray  and  high, 
A  dormer,  facing  westward,  looks 
Upon  the  village  like  an  eye  : 

And  now  it  glimmers  in  tlie  sun, 
A  square  of  gold,  a  disk,  a  speck  : 
And  in  the  belfry  sits  a  dove 
With  purple  ripples  on  her  neck. 

Thoimas  Bailey  Aldrich. 


THE   ANGLER'S   WISH. 

'  N  these  flowery  meads  would  be, 

These  crystal  streams  should  solace  me ; 
To  whose  harmonious  bubbling  noise, 
I  with  my  angle  would  rejoice. 
Sit  here,  and  see  the  turtle-dove, 
Court  his  chaste  mate  to  acts  of  love : 

Or  on  that  bank,  feel  the  west  wind 
Breathe  health  and  plenty,  please  my  mind 
To  see  sweet  dew-drops  kiss  these  flowers, 
And  then  wash  off  by  April  showers : 


Here,  hear  my  Kenna  sing  a  song, 
There,  see  a  blackbird  feed  her  young. 

Or  a  laverock  build  her  nest ; 

Here  give  my  weary  spirits  rest. 

And  raise  my  low-pitched  thoughts  above 

Earth,  or  what  poor  mortals  love : 
Thus  free  from  lawsuits,  and  the  noise 
Of  princes'  courts,  I  would  rejoice: 

Or  with  my  Bryan  and  a  book. 
Loiter  long  days  near  Shawford  Brook ; 
There  sit  by  him,  and  eat  my  meat. 
There  see  the  sun  both  rise  and  set ; 
There  bid  good-morning  to  next  day ; 
There  meditate  my  time  away ; 
And  angle  on,  and  beg  to  have 
A  quiet  passage  to  a  welcome  grave. 

IzAAK  Walton. 


APOSTROPHE  TO  THE  OCEAN. 

HERE  is  a  pleasure  in  the  pathless  woods, 
There  is  a  rapture  on  the  lonely  shore. 
There  is  society,  where  none  intrudes, 
'f'       By  the  deep  sea,  and  music  in  its  roar ; 
I  love  not  man  the  less,  but  nature  more, 
From  these  our  interviews,  in  which  I  steal 
From  all  I  may  be,  or  have  been  before, 
To  mingle  with  the  universe,  and  feel 
What  I  can  ne'er  express,  yet  cannot  aii  conceal. 

Roll  on,  thou  deep  and  dark  blue  ocean — roll ! 
Ten  thousand  fleets  sweep  over  thee  in  vain  ; 
Man  marks  the  earth  with  ruin — his  control 
Stops  with  the  shore  ;  upon  the  watery  plain 
The  wrecks  are  all  thy  deed,  nor  doth  remain 
A  shadow  of  man's  ravage,  save  his  own  ; 
When,  for  a  moment,  like  a  drop  of  rain. 
He  sinks  into  thy  depths  with  bubbling  groan — 
Without  a  grave,  unknelled,  uncoflfined,  and  unknown. 

Thou  glorious  mirror,  where  the  Almighty's  form 
Glasses  itself  in  tempests  ;  in  all  time. 
Calm  or  convulsed — in  breeze,  or  gale,  or  storm, 
Icing  the  pole  ;  or  in  the  torrid  clime 
Dark-heaving  ;  boundless,  endless,  and  sublime — 
The  irnage  of  eternity — the  throne 
Of  the  Invisible  ;  even  from  out  thy  slime 
The  monsters  of  the  deep  are  made  ;  each  zone 
Obeys  thee ;  thou  goest  forth,  dread,  fathomless,  alone. 

And  I  have  loved  thee,  ocean  !  and  my  joy 
Of  youthful  sports  was  on  thy  breast  to  be 
Borne,  like  thy  bubbles,  onward  :  from  a  boy 
I  wantoned  with  thy  breakers — they  to  me 
Were  a  delight ;  and  if  the  freshenmg  sea 
Made  them  a  terror-  -'twas  a  pleasing 
For  I  was,  as  it  were,  a  child  of  thee. 
And  trusted  to  thy  billows  far  and  near, 
And  laid  my  hand  upon  thy  mane — as  I  do  here. 

Lord  Byron. 


154 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


© 


SUNSET  AT  NORHAM  CASTLE 

AY  set  on  Norham's  castled  steep, 
And  Tweed's  fair  river  broad  and  deep, 

And  Cheviot's  rriountains  lone  ; 
The  battled  towers,  the  donjon  keep. 
The  loop-hole  grates  where  captives  weep, 
The  flanking  walls  that  round  it  sweep, 
In  yellow  lustre  shone. 

The  warriors  on  the  turrets  high, 
Moving  athwart  the  evening  sky. 

Seemed  forms  of  giant  height; 
Their  armor,  as  it  caught  the  rays, 
Flashed  back  again  the  western  blaze 

In  lines  of  dazzling  light. 

St.  George's  banner,  broad  and  gay. 
Now  faded,  as  the  fading  ray 

Less  bright,  and  less,  was  flung  ; 
The  evening  gale  had  scarce  the  power 
To  wave  it  on  the  donjon  tower, 

So  heavily  it  hung. 

The  scouts  had  parted  on  their  search, 

The  castle  gales  were  barred  ; 
Above  the  gloomy  portal  arch. 
Timing  his  footsteps  to  a  march. 
The  warder  kept  his  guard. 
Low  humming,  as  he  paced  along, 
Some  ancient  border-gathering  song. 

A  distant  tramping  sound  he  Iiears  ; 
He  looks  abroad  and  soon  appears, 
O'er  Horncliff  hill,  a  plump  of  spears 

Beneath  a  pennon  gay  ; 
A  horseman,  darting  from  the  crowd. 
Like  lightning  from  a  summer  cloud, 
Spurs  on  his  mettled  courser  proud, 

Before  the  dark  array. 

Beneath  the  sable  palisade, 
That  closed  the  castle  barricade, 

His  bugle-horn  he  blew; 
The  warder  hasted  from  the  wall. 
And  warned  the  captain  in  the  hall, 

For  well  the  blast  he  knew  ; 
And  joyfully  that  knight  did  call 
To  sewer,  squire,  and  seneschal. 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 


THE  ICEBERG. 

'WAS  night — our  anchored  vessel  slept 
Out  on  the  glassy  sea  ; 
And  still  as  heaven  the  waters  kept, 
"^  And  golden  bright — as  he. 

The  setting  sun,  went  sinking  slow 

Beneath  the  eternal  wave  ; 
And  the  ocean  seemed  a  pall  to  throw 
Over  the  monarch's  grave. 


There  was  no  motion  of  the  air 

To  raise  the  sleeper's  tress, 
And  no  wave-building  winds  were  there 

On  ocean's  loveliness  ;  i 

But  ocean  mingled  with  the  sky 

With  sucli  an  equal  hue. 
That  vainly  strove  the  'wildered  eye 

To  part  their  gold  and  blue. 

And  ne'er  a  ripple  of  the  sea 

Came  on  our  steady  gaze. 
Save  when  some  timorous  fish  stole  out 

To  bathe  in  the  woven  blaze — 
When,  flouting  in  the  light  that  played         ^ 

All  over  the  resting  main, 
He  would  sink  beneath  the  wave,  and  dart 

To  his  deep,  blue  home  again. 

Yet,  while  we  gazed,  that  sunny  eve. 

Across  the  twinkling  deep, 
A  form  came  plougliing  the  golden  wave. 

And  rending  its  holy  sleep  ; 
It  blushed  bright  red,  while  growing  on 

Olir  fixed,  half-fearful  gaze  ; 
But  it  wandered  down  with  its  glow  of  light. 

And  its  robe  of  sunny  rays. 

It  seemed  like  molten  silver,  thrown 

Together  in  floating  flame  ; 
And  as  we  looked,  we  named  it  then, 

The  fount  whence  all  colors  came  : 
There  were  rainbows  furled  with  a  careless  grace. 

And  the  brightest  red  tliat  glows  ; 
The  purple  amethyst  there  had  place, 

And  the  hues  of  a  full-blown  rose. 

And  the  vivid  green,  as  the  sun-lit  grass 

Where  the  pleasant  rain  hath  been  ; 
And  the  ideal  hues,  that,  thought-like,  pass 

Through  the  minds  of  fanciful  men  ; 
They  beamed  full  clear — and  that  form  moved  on, 

Like  one  from  a  burning  grave  ; 
And  we  dared  not  think  it  a  real  thing. 

But  for  the  rustling  wave. 

The  sun  just  lingered  in  our  view. 

From  the  burning  edge  of  ocean, 
When  by  our  bark  that  bright  one  passed  i 

With  a  deep,  disturbing  motion  : 
The  far  down  waters  shrank  away. 

With  a  gurgling  rush  upheaving, 
And  the  lifted  waves  grew  pale  and  sad, 

Their  mother's  bosom  leaving. 

Yet,  as  it  passed  our  bending  stern. 

In  its  throne-like  glory  going. 
It  crushed  on  a  hidden  rock,  and  turned 

Like  an  empire's  overthrowing. 
The  uptom  waves  rolled  hoar — and,  huge. 

The  far-thrown  undulations 
Swelled  out  in  the  sun's  last,  lingering  smile. 

And  fell  like  battling  nations. 

J.  O.  Rockwell. 


BEAUTIES   OF   NATURE. 


155 


MOUNT  WASHINGTON  ;  THE  LOFTIEST  PEAK 
OF  THE  WHITE  MOUNTAINS. 

OUNT  of  the  clouds,   on   whose    Olympian 
hei-ht 
The  tall  rocks  brighten  in  the  ether  air, 
And  spirits  from  the  skies  come  down  at 
night. 
To  chant  immortal  songs  to  freedom  there  ! 
Thine  is  the  rock  of  other  regions  ;  where 
The  world  of  life  which  blooms  so  far  below 
Sweeps  a  wide  waste  :  no  gladdening  scenes  appear, 
Save  where,  with  silvery  flash,  the  waters  flow 
Beneath  the  far  off  mountain,  distant,  calm,  and  slow. 

Thine  is  the  summit  where  the  clouds  repose, 
Or,  eddying  wildly,  round  thy  cliffs  are  borne  ; 
When  tempest  mounts  his  rushing  car,  and  throws 
His  billowy  mist  amid  the  thunder's  home  ! 
Far  down  the  deep  ravines  the  whirlwinds  come. 
And  bow  the  forests  as  they  sweep  along  ; 
While,  roaring  deeply  from  their  rocky  womb. 
The  storms  come  forth — and,  hurrying  darkly  on. 
Amid  the  echoing  peaks,  the  revelry  prolong  ! 

And,  when  the  tumult  of  the  air  is  fled, 
And  quenched  in  silence  all  the  tempest  flame. 
There  come  the  dim  forms  of  the  mighty  dead. 
Around  the  steep  which  bears  the  hero's  name. 
The  stars  look  down  upon  them — and  the  same 
Pale  orb  that  glistens  o'er  his  distant  grave, 
Gleams  on  the  summit  that  enshrines  his  fame, 
And  lights  the  cold  tear  of  the  glorious  brave — 
The  richest,  purest  tear,  that  memory  ever  gave  ! 

Mount  of  the  clouds,  when  winter  round  thee  throws 
The  hoary  mantle  of  the  dying  year, 
Sublime,  amid  thy  canopy  of  snows. 
Thy  towers  in  bright  magnificence  appear ! 
'Tis  then  we  view  thee  with  a  chilling  fear 
Till  summer  robes  thee  in  her  tints  of  blue  ; 
When,  lo  !  in  softened  grandeur,  far,  yet  clear. 
Thy  battlements  stand  clothed  in  heaven's  own  hue, 
To  swell  as  freedom's  home  on  man's  unbounded  view. 

Grenville  Mellen. 


PALESTINE. 

OW,  upon  Syria's  land  of  roses 
S(jftly  the  light  of  eve  reposes, 
And,  like  a  glory,  the  broad  sun 
Hangs  over  sainted  Lebanon, 
Whose  head  in  wintry  grandeur  towers, 

And  whitens  with  eternal  sleet. 
While  summer,  in  a  vale  of  flowers, 
Is  sleeping  rosy  at  his  feet. 

To  one  who  looked  from  upper  air 
O'er  all  the  enchanted  regions  there, 


How  beauteous  must  have  been  the  glow, 

The  life,  how  sparkling  from  below  ! 

Fair  gardens,  shining  streams,  with  ranks 

Of  golden  melons  on  their  banks. 

More  golden  where  the  sunlight  falls  ; 

Gay  lizards,  glittering  on  the  walls 

Of  ruined  shrines,  busy  and  bright 

As  they  were  all  alive  with  light ; 

And,  yet  more  splendid,  numerous  flocks 

Of  pigeons,  settling  on  the  rocks, 

With  their  rich,  restless  wings,  that  gleam 

Variously  in  the  crimson  beam 

Of  the  warm  west — as  if  inlaid 

With  brilliants  from  the  mine,  or  made 

Of  tearless  rainbows,  such  as  span 

The  unclouded  skies  of  Peristan  ! 

And  then,  the  mingling  sounds  that  come. 

Of  shepherd's  ancient  reed,  with  hum 

Of  the  wild  bees  of  Palestine, 

Banqueting,  through  the  flowery  vales  ; — 
And,  Jordan,  those  sweet  banks  of  thine. 

And  woods,  so  full  of  nightingales  ! 

Thomas  Moore. 


THE  NORTHERN  LIGHTS. 

'O  claim  the  Arctic  came  the  sun 
With  banners  of  the  burning  zone. 
Unrolled  upon  their  airy  spars, 
They  froze  beneath  the  light  of  stars  ; 
And  there  they  float,  those  streamers  old. 
Those  northern  lights,  forever  cold  ! 

Benjamin  Franklin  Taylor. 


THE  SUPERNATURAL 

'  HOULD  fate  command  me  to  the  farthest  verge 
Of  the  green    earth,    to    distant  barbarous 

climes. 
Rivers  unknown  to  song ;  where  first  the  sun 
Gilds  Indian  mountains,  or  his  setting  beam 
Flames  on  the  Atlantic  isles  :  'tis  nought  to  me; 
Since  God  is  ever  present,  ever  felt. 
In  the  void  waste,  as  in  the  city  full ; 
And  where  he  vital  breathes,  there  must  be  joy. 
When  even  at  last  the  solemn  hour  shall  come, 
And  wing  my  mystic  flight  to  future  worlds, 
I  cheerful  will  obey  :  there,  with  new  powers. 
Will  rising  wonders  sing  :  I  cannot  go 
Where  universal  love  not  smiles  around, 
Sustaining  all  yon  orbs,  and  all  their  suns  ; 
From  seeming  evil  still  educing  good, 
And  better  tlience  again,  and  better  still. 
In  infinite  progression.    But  I  lose 
Myself  in  him,  in  light  ineffable  ; 
Come  then,  expressive  silence,  muse  his  praise, 

James  Thomson. 


156 


CROWN   JEWELS. 


HYMN  ON  SOLITUDE. 

'AIL,  mildly  pleasing  solitude, 
Companion  of  the  wise  and  good, 
But.  from  whose  holy,  piercing  eye, 
The  herd  of  fools  and  villains  fly. 
Oh  !  how  I  love  with  thee  to  walk, 
And  Hsten  to  thy  whispered  talk, 
Which  innocence  and  truth  imparts, 
And  melts  the  most  obdurate  hearts. 

A  thousand  shapes  you  wear  with  ease, 
And  still  in  every  shape  you  please. 
Now  rapt  in  some  mysterious  dream, 
A  lone  philosopher  you  seem  ; 
Now  quick  from  hill  to  vale  you  fly, 
And  now  you  sweep  the  vaulted  sky ; 
A  shepherd  next,  you  haunt  the  plain, 
And  warble  forth  your  oaten  strain. 

Thine  is  the  balmy  breath  of  morn, 
Just  as  the  dew-bent  rose  is  born  ; 
And  while  meridian  fervors  beat, 
Thine  is  the  woodland  dumb  retreat ; 
But  chief,  when  evening  scenes  decay, 
And  the  faint  landscape  swims  away, 
Thine  is  the  doubtful  soft  decline, 
And  that  best  hour  of  musing  thine. 
Descending  angels  bless  thy  train, 
The  virtues  of  the  sage,  and  swam  ; 
Plain  innocence,  in  white  arrayed. 
Before  thee  lifts  her  fearless  head : 
Religion's  beams  around  thee  shine, 
And  cheer  thy  glooms  with  light  divine  : 
About  thee  sports  sweet  liberty  ; 
And  rapt  Urania  sings  to  thee. 

Oh,  let  me  pierce  thy  secret  cell  1 
And  in  thy  deep  recesses  dwell  ; 
Perhaps  from  Norwood's  oak-clad  hill. 
When  meditation  has  her  fill, 
I  just  may  cast  my  careless  eyes 
Where  London's  spiry  turrets  rise. 
Think  of  its  crimes,  its  cares,  its  pain. 
Then  shield  me  in  the  woods  again. 

James  Tho.mson. 

TO  A  WILD  DEER. 

'IT  couch  of  repose  for  a  pilgrim  like  thee  ! 

Magnificent  prison  inclosing  the  free  ! 

With     rock-wall     encircled — with     precipice 
crowned — 
Which,  awoke  by  the  sun,  thou  canst  clear  at  a  bound. 
'Mid  the  fern  and  the  heather,  kind  nature  doth  keep 
One  bright  spot  of  green  for  her  favorite's  sleep  ; 
And  close  to  that  covert,  as  clear  as  the  skies 
When  their  blue  depths  are  cloudless,  a  little  lake  lies, 
Where  the  creature  at  rest  can  his  image  behold, 
Looking  up  through  the  radiance,  as  bright  and  as  bold  ! 
How  lonesome  !  how  wild  !  yet  the  wildness  is  rife 
With  the  stir  of  enjoyment — the  spirit  of  life. 


The  glad  fish  leaps  up  in  the  heart  of  the  lake, 
Whose  depths,  at  the  sullen  plunge,  sullenly  quake ! 
As  if  in  his  soul  the  bold  animal  smiled 
To  his  friends  of  the  sky,  the  joint-heirs  of  the  wild. 

Yes  !  fierce  looks  thy  nature,  e'en  hushed  in  repose — 

In  the  depths  of  thy  desert  regardless  of  foes, 

Thy  bold  antlers  call  on  the  hunter  afar, 

With  a  haughty  defiance  to  come  to  the  war  ! 

No  outrage  is  war  to  a  creature  like  thee  ! 

The  bugle-horn  fills  thy  wild  spirit  with  glee, 

As  thou  barest  thy  neck  on  the  wings  of  the  wind, 

And  the  laggardly  gaze  hound  is  toiling  behind. 

In  the  beams  of  thy  forehead  that  glitter  with  death — 

In  feet  that  draw  power  from  the  touch  of  the  heath — 

Elate  on  the  fern-branch  the  grasshopper  sings, 

And  away  in  the  midst  of  his  roundelay  springs  ; 

'Mid  the  flowers  of  the  heath,  not  more  bright  than 

himself, 
The  wild-bee  is  busy,  a  musical  elf- 
Then  starts  from  his  labor,  unwearied  and  gay, 
And  circling  his  antlers,  booms  far,  far  away. 
While  high  up  the  mountains,  in  silence  remote, 
The  cuckoo  unseen  is  repeating  his  note  ; 
The  mellowing  echo,  on  watch  in  the  skies, 
Like  a  voice  from  the  loftier  climate  replies. 
With  wide-spreading  antlers,  a  guard  to  his  breast, 
There  lies  the  wild  creature,  e'en  stately  in  rest ! 
'Mid  the  grandeur  of  nature,  composed  and  serene, 
And  proud  in  his  heart  of  the  mountainous  scene. 
He  lifts  his  calm  eye  to  the  eagle  and  raven, 
At  noon  sinking  down  on  smooth  wings  to  their  haven. 
In  the  wide-raging  torrent  that  lends  thee  its  roar — 
In  the  cliff  that,  once  trod,  must  be  trodden  no  more — 
Thy  trust,  'mid  the  dangers  that  threaten  thy  reign  ! 
But  what  if  the  stag  on  the  mountain  be  slain  ? 
On  the  brink  of  the  rock — lo  !  he  standeth  at  bay, 
Like  a  victor  that  falls  at  the  close  of  the  day  : 
While  hunter  and  hound  in  their  terror  retreat 
From  the  death  that  is  spurned  from  his  furious  feet ; 
And  his  last  cry  of  anger  comes  back  from  the  skies, 
As  nature's  fierce  son  in  the  wilderness  dies. 

John  Wilson. 

THE   SIERRAS. 

•^  IKE  fragments  of  an  uncompleted  world, 
•®'  /•     From  bleak  Alaska,  bound  in  ice  and  spray, 
.  -^^     To  where  the  peaks  of  Darien  lie  curled 

In  clouds,  the   broken  lands  loom  bold  and 
gray ; 
The  seamen  nearing  San  Francisco  Bay 
Forget  the  compass  here  ;  with  sturdy  hand 
They  seize  the  wheel,  look  up,  then  bravely  lay 
The  ship  to  shore  by  rugged  peaks  that  stand. 
The  stern  and  proud  patrician  fathers  of  the  land. 

They  stand  white  stairs  of  heaven — stand  a  line 
Of  lifting,  endless,  and  eternal  white; 


BEAUTIHS   OF   NATURE. 


157 


They  look  upon  the  far  and  flashing  brine, 
Upon  the  boundless  plains,  the  broken  height 
Of  Kaniiakin's  battlements.     The  flight 
Of  time  is  underneath  their  untopped  towers  ; 
They  seem  to  push  aside  the  moon  at  night, 
To  jostle  and  to  lose  the  stars.     The  flowers 
Of  heaven  fall  about  their  brows  in  shining  showers. 

They  stand  a  line  of  lifted  snowy  isles, 
High  held  above  a  tossed  and  tumbled  sea — 
A  sea  of  wood  in  wild  unmeasured  miles  ; 
White  pyramids  of  faith  w-here  man  is  free ; 
Wliite  monuments  of  hope  that  yet  shall  be 
The  mounts  of  matchless  and  immortal  song. 
I  look  far  down  the  hollow  days  ;  I  see 
The  bearded  prophets,  simple-souled  and  strong, 
That  strike  the  sounding  harp  and  thrill  the  heeding 
throng. 

Serene  and  satisfied  !  supreme !  as  lone 

As  God,  they  loom  like  God's  archangels  churled  : 

They  look  as    old  as  kings  upon  a  throne  ; 

The  mantling   wings    of   night  are  crushed    and 

curled 
As  feathers  curl.     The  elements  are  hurled 
From  off^  their  bosoms,  and  are  bidden  go, 
Like  evil  spirits,  to  an  under-world  ; 
They  stretch  from  Cariboo  to  Mexico, 
A  line  of  battle-tents  in  everlasting  snow. 

Joaquin  Miller. 

THE  SEA  BREEZE  AND  THE  SCARF. 

'UNG  on  the  casement  that  looked  o'er  the  main, 
Fluttered  a  scarf  of  blue  ; 
And  a  gay,  bold  breeze  paused  to  flatter  and 
tease 
This  trifle  of  delicate  hue  ; 
You  are  lovelier  far  than  the  proud  skies  are," 

He  said,  with  a  voice  that  sighed  ; 
'  You  are  fairer  to  me  than  the  beautilul  sea  ; 
Oh,  why  do  you  stay  here  and  hide  ? 

'  You  are  wasting  j'our  life  in  this  dull,  dark  room  ;" 

And  he  fondled  her  silken  folds. 
'  O'er  the  casement  lean  but  a  little,  my  queen, 
And  see  what  the  great  Avorld  holds  ! 
How  the  wonderful  blue  of  your  inatchless  hue. 

Cheapens  both  sea  and  sky  ! 
You  are  far  too  bright  to  be  hidden  from  sight ; 
Come,  fly  with  me,  darling,  fly  ! " 

Tender  his  whisper  atid  sweet  his  caress. 

Flattered  and  pleased  was  she. 
The  arms  of  her  lover  lifted  her  over 

The  casement  out  to  sea  ; 
Close  to  his  breast  she  was  fondly  pressed, 

Kissed  once  by  his  laughing  mouth  ; 
Then  dropped  to  her  grave  in  the  cruel  wave. 

While  the  wind  went  whistling  south. 

Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox. 


UNDER  THE  LEAVES. 

FT  have  I  walked  these  woodland  paths, 
Without  the  blest  foreknowing 
That  underneath  the  withered  leaves 
The  fairest  buds  were  growing. 

To-day  the  south  wind  sweeps  away 
The  types  of  autumn's  splendor, 

And  shows  the  sweet  arbutus  flowers. 
Spring's  children,  pure  and  tender. 

O  prophet-flowers  ! — with  lips  of  bloom, 

Outvying  in  your  beauty 
The  pearly  tints  of  ocean  shells — 

Ye  teach  me  faith  and  duty  ! 

"  Walk  life's  dark  ways,"  ye  seem  to  say, 
"  With  love's  divine  foreknowing, 

That  where  man  sees  but  withered  leaves, 
God  sees  sweet  flowers  growing." 

Albert  Laighton. 


TO  THE  SKYLARK. 

AIL  to  thee,  blithe  spirit ! 
Bird  thou  never  wert. 
That  from  heaven,  or  near  it, 
Pourest  thy  full  heart 
In  profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art. 

Higher  still  and  higher 

From  the  earth  thou  springest. 
Like  a  cloud  of  fire  ; 

The  blue  deep  thou  wingest, 
And  singing  still  dogt  soar,  and  soaring  ever  singest. 

In  the  golden  lightning 

Of  the  setting  sun. 
O'er  which  clouds  are  brightening, 
Thou  dost  float  and  run ; 
Like  an  unbodied  joy  whose  race  is  just  begun. 

The  pale  purple  even 

Melts  around  thy  flight ; 
Like  a  star  of  heaven, 

In  the  broad  daylight 
Thou  art  unseen,  but  yet  I  hear  thy  shrill  delight. 

Keen  as  are  the  arrows 

Of  that  silver  sphere, 
Whose  intense  lamp  narrows 

In  the  while  dawn  clear, 
Until  we  hardly  see,  we  feel  that  it  is  there. 

All  the  earth  and  air 

With  thy  voice  is  loud, 
As,  when  night  is  bare. 
From  one  lonely  cloud 
The  moon  rains  out  her  beams,  and  heaven  is  over- 
flowed. 


158 


CROWN   JEWELS. 


What  Ihou  art  we  know  not : 

What  is  most  like  thee  ? 
From  rainbow  clouds  there  flow  not 

Drops  so  bright  to  see, 
As  from  thy  presence  showers  a  rain  of  melody. 

Like  a  poet  hidden 

In  tlie  light  of  thought, 
Singing  hymns  unbidden, 
Till  the  world  is  wrought 
To  sympathy  with  hopes  and  fears  it  heeded  not ; 

Like  a  high-born  maiden 
•  In  a  palace  tower, 
Soothing  her  love-laden 
Soul  in  secret  hour 
With  music  sweet    as    love,    which    overflows  her 
bower ; 

Like  a  glow-worm  golden 

In  a  dell  of  dew, 
Scattering  unbeholden 
Its  aerial  hue 
Among  the  flowers  and  grass  which  screen  it  from  the 
view  ; 

Like  a  rose  embowered 

In  its  own  green  leaves, 
By  warm  winds  deflowered, 
Till  the  scent  it  gives 
Makes  faint  with  too  much  sweet  these  heavy-winged 
thieves. 

Sound  of  vernal  showers 
On  the  twinkling  grass. 
Rain-awakened  flowers, 
All  that  ever  was 
Joyous  and  fresh  and  clear  thy  music  doth  surpass. 

Teach  us,  sprite  or  bird, 

What  sweet  thoughts  are  thine  ; 
I  have  never  heard 
Praise  of  love  or  wine 
That  panted  forth  a  flood  of  rapture  so  divine. 

Chorus  hymeneal, 

Or  triumphant  chant. 
Matched  with  thine,  would  be  all 
But  an  empty  vaunt — 
A  thing  wherein  we  feel  there  is  some  hidden  want. 

What  objects  are  the  fountains 

Of  thy  happy  strain  ? 
What  fields,  or  waves,  or  mountains  ? 
What  shapes  of  sky  or  plain  ? 
What  love  of  thine  own  kind  ?    What  ignorance  of 
pain  ? 

With  thy  clear,  keen  joyance 

Languor  cannot  be ; 
Shadow  of  annoyance 
Never  come  near  thee  : 
Thou  lovest :  but  n<i'er  knew  love's  sad  satiety. 


Waking  or  asleep, 

Thou  of  death  must  deem 
Things  more  true  and  deep 

Than  we  mortals  dream, 
Or  how  could  thy  notes  flow  in  such  a  crystal  stream? 

We  look  before  and  after, 

And  pine  for  what  is  not ; 
Our  sincerest  laughter 

With  some  pain  is  fraught  ; 
Our  sweetest  songs  are  those  that  tell  of  saddest 
thought. 

Yet  if  we  could  scorn 

Hate  and  pride  and  fear, 
If  we  were  things  born 
Not  to  shed  a  tear, 
I  know  not  how  thy  joy  we  ever  should  come  near. 

Better  than  all  measures 

Of  delightful  sound, 
Better  th'an  all  treasures 
That  in  books  are  found, 
Thy  skill  to  poet  were,  thou  scorner  of  the  ground  ! 

Teach  me  half  the  gladness 

That  thy  brain  must  know. 
Such  harmonious  madness 
From  my  lips  would  flow, 
The  world  should  listen  then  as  I  am  listening  now. 
Percy  Bysshe  Shelley. 


WHEN  THE  HOUNDS  OF  SPRIN^i. 

HEN  the  hounds   of  spring  are  on  winter's 
traces, 
The  mother  of  months  in  meadow  or  plain 
Fills  the  shadows  and  windy  places 
With  lisp  of  leaves  and  ripple  of  rain  ; 
And  the  brown  bright  nightingale  amorous 
Is  half  assuaged  for  Itylus, 
For  the  Thracian  ships  and  the  foreign  faces  • 
The  tongueless  vigil,  and  all  the  pain. 

Come  with  bows  bent  and  with  emptying  of  cjuivers, 

Maiden  most  perfect,  lady  of  light. 
With  a  noise  of  winds  and  many  rivers. 

With  a  clamor  of  waters,  and  with  might ; 
Bind  on  thy  sandals,  O  thou  most  fleet. 
Over  the  splendor  and  spee^  of  thy  feet ! 
For  the  faint  east  quickens,  the  wan  west  shivers, 

Round  the  feet  of  the  day  and  the  feet  of  the  night. 

Where  shall  we  find  her,  how  shall  we  sing  to  her, 
Fold  our  hands  round  her  knees  and  cling  ? 

O  that  man's  heart  were  as  fire  and  could  spring  to  her, 
Fire,  or  the  strength  of  the  streams  that  spring ! 

For  the  stars  and  the  winds  are  unto  her 

As  raiment,  as  songs  of  tha  harp-player ; 

For  the  risen  stars  and  the  fallen  cling  to  her, 
And  the  southwest-wind  and  the  west-wind  sing. 


BEAUTIES  OF  NATURE. 


159 


For  winter's  rains  and  ruins  are  over, 
And  all  the  season  of  snows  and  sins  ! 

The  days  dividing  lover  and  lover, 

The  light  that  loses,  the  night  that  wins  ; 

And  time  remembered  its  grief  forgotten, 

And  frosts  are  slain  and  flowers  begotten, 

And  in  green  underwood  and  cover 
Blossom  by  blossom  the  spring  begins. 

The  full  streams  feed  on  flower  of  rushes, 
Ripe  grasses  trammel  a  traveling  foot. 

The  faint  fresh  flame  of  the  young  year  flushes 
From  leaf  to  flower  and  flower  to  fruit ; 

And  fruit  and  leaf  are  as  gold  and  fire. 

And  the  oat  is  heard  above  the  lyre. 

And  the  hoofed  heel  of  a  satyr  crushes 
The  chestnut-husk  at  the  chestnut-root. 

And  Pan  by  noon  and  Bacchus  by  night, 

Fleeter  of  foot  than  the  fleet-foot  kid. 
Follows  with  dancing  and  fills  with  delight 

The  Masnad  and  the  Bassarid  ; 
And  soft  as  lips  that  laugh  and  hide. 
The  laughing  leaves  of  the  trees  divide, 
Aftd  screen  from  seeing  and  leave  in  sight 

The  god  pursuing,  the  maiden  hid. 

The  ivy  falls  with  the  Bacchanal's  hair 
Over  her  eyebrows  shadnig  her  eyes ; 

The  wild  vine  slipping  down  leaves  bare 
Her  bright  breast  shortening  into  sighs ; 

The  wild  vine  slips  with  the  weight  of  its  leaves, 

But  the  berried  ivy  catches  and  cleaves 

To  the  limbs  that  glitter,  the  feet  that  scare 
The  wolf  that  follows,  the  fawn  that  flies.  ■ 

Algernon  Charles  Swinburne. 


REMONSTRANCE  WITH  THE  SNAILS. 

'  E  little  snails. 

With  slippery  tails. 
Who  noiselessly  travel 
Along  this  gravel. 
By  a  silvery  path  of  slime  unsightly, 
I  learn  that  you  visit  my  pea-rows  nightly. 
Felonious  your  visit,  I  guess  ! 
And  I  give  you  this  warning, 
That,  every  morning, 

I'll  strictly  examine  the  pods  ; 
And  if  one  I  hit  on, 
With  slaver  or  spit  on, 

Your  next  meal  will  be  with  the  gods. 

I  own  you're  a  very  ancient  race. 
And  Greece  and  Babylon  were  amid  ; 

You  have  tenanted  many  a  royal  dome, 
And  dwelt  in  the  oldest  pyramid  ; 

The  source  of  the  Nile  ! — O,  you  have  been  there ! 


In  the  ark  was  your  floodless  bed  ; 
On  the  moonless  night  of  Marathon 

You  crawled  o'er  the  mighty  dead  ; 

But  still,  tliough  I  reverence  your  ancestries, 
I  don't  see  why  you  should  nibble  my  peas. 

The  meadows  are  yours — the  hedgerow  and  brook, 

You  may  bathe  in  their  dews  at  morn  ; 
By  the  aged  sea  you  may  sound  your  shells, 

On  the  mountains  erect  your  horn  ; 
The  fruits  and  the  flowers  are  your  rightful  dowers, 

Then  why — in  the  name  of  wonder — 
Should  my  six  pea-rows  be  the  only  cause 

To  excite  your  midnight  plunder  ? 

I  have  never  disturbed  your  slender  shells ; 

You  have  hung  round  my  aged  walk  ; 
And  each  might  have  sat,  till  he  died  in  his  fat. 

Beneath  his  own  cabbage-stalk  : 
But  now  you  must  fly  from  the  soil  of  your  sires  ; 

Then  put  on  your  liveliest  crawl. 
And  think  of  your  poor  little  snails  at  home. 

Now  orphans  or  emigrants  all. 

Utensils  domestic  and  civil  and  social 

I  give  you  an  evening  to  pack  up ; 
But  if  the  moon  of  this  night  does  not  rise  on  your 
fliglit, 

To-morrow  I'll  hang  each  man  Jack  up. 
You'll  think  of  my  peas  and  your  thievish  tricks, 
With  tears  of  slime,  when  crossing  the  Siy:i:. 

ALMOND    BLOSSOM. 

^LOSSOM  of  the  almond-trees, 
April's  gifts  to  April's  bees. 
Birthday  ornament  of  spring, 
Flora's  fairest  daughterling  ; — 
Coming  when  no  flowerets  dare 
Trust  the  cruel  outer  air, 
When  the  royal  king-cup  bold 
Dares  not  don  his  coat  of  gold. 
And  the  sturdy  blackthorn  spray 
Keeps  his  silver  for  the  May  ; — 
Coming  when  no  flowerets  would, 
Save  thy  lowly  sisterhood. 
Early  violets,  blue  and  white. 
Dying  for  their  love  of  light. 
Almond  blossom,  sent  to  teach  us 
That  the  spring  days  soon  will  reach  us, 
Lest,  with  longing  over-tried. 
We  die  as  the  violets  died — 
Blossom,  clouding  all  the  tree 
With  thy  crimson  broidery, 
Long  before  a  leaf  of  green 
On  the  bravest  bough  is  seen — 
Ah  !  when  winter  winds  are  swinging 
All  thy  red  bells  into  ringing. 
With  a  bee  in  every  bell, 
Almond  bloom,  we  greet  thee  well ! 

*  Edwin  Arnold 


160 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


THE  GRASSHOPPER  AND  CRICKET. 

'HE  poetry  of  earth  is  never  dead  ; 

When  all  the  birds  are  faint  with  the  hot  sun 
And  hide  in  cooling  trees,  a  voice  will  run 
From  hedge  to  hedge  about  the  new-mown 
mead, 
That  is  the  grasshopper's — he  takes  th;j  lead 
In  summer  luxury— he  lias  never  done 
With  his  delights  ;  for,  when  tired  out  with  fun. 
He  rests  at  ease  beneath  some  pleasant  weed. 
The  poetry  of  earth  is  ceasing  never. 
On  a  lone  winter  evening,  when  the  frost 
Hp.s  wrought  a  silence,  from  the  stove  there  shrills 
The  cricket's  song,  in  warmth  increasing  ever. 
And  seems,  to  one  in  drowsiness  half  lost, 
The  grasshopper's  among  some  grassy  hills. 

John  Keats. 

THE  PLANTING  OF  THE  APPLE-TREE. 

OME,  let  us  plant  the  apple-tree. 

Cleave  the  tough  greensward  with  the  spade  ; 
Wide  let  its  hollow  bed  be  made  ; 
There  gently  lay  the  roots,  and  there 
Sift  the  dark  mould  with  kindly  care, 

And  press  it  o'er  them  tenderly, 
As  round  the  sleeping  infant's  feet 
We  softly  fold  the  cradle-sheet ; 
So  plant  we  the  apple-tree. 

.  What  plant  we  in  this  apple-tree  ? 
Buds,  which  the  breath  of  summer  days 
Shall  lengthen  into  leafy  sprays  ; 
Boughs  where  the  thrush  with  crimson  breast 
Shall  haunt,  and  sing,  and  hide  her  nest; 

We  plant,  upon  the  sunny  lea, 
A  shadow  for  the  noontide  hour, 
A  shelter  from  the  summer's  shower. 

When  we  plant  the  apple-tree. 

What  plant  we  in  this  apple-tree  ? 
Sweets  for  a  hundred  flowery  springs 
To  load  the  May-wind's  restless  wings, 
When,  from  the  orchard  row,  he  pours 

Its  fragrance  through  our  open  doors ; 

A  world  of  blossoms  for  the  bee, 
Flowers  for  the  sick  girl's  silent  room, 
For  the  glad  infant  sprigs  of  bloom, 

We  plant  with  the  apple-tree. 

What  plant  we  in  this  apple-tree  ?  ' 

Fruits  that  shall  swell  in  sunny  June, 
And  redden  in  the  August  noon, 
And  drop,  when  gentle  airs  come  by, 
That  fan  the  blue  September  sky, 

While  children  come,  with  cries  of  glee, 
And  seek  them  where  the  fragrant  grass 
Betrays  their  bed  to  those  who  pass, 

At  the  foot  of  the  apple-tree. 


And  when,  above  this  apple-tree, 
The  winter  stars  are  quivering  bright. 
And  winds  go  howling  through  the  night, 
Girls,  whose  young  eyes  o'erflow  with  mirth. 
Shall  peel  its  fruit  by  cottage  hearth. 

And  guests  in  prouder  homes  shall  see. 
Heaped  with  the  grape  of  Cintra's  vine 

And  golden  orange  of  the  line. 

The  fruit  of  the  apple-tree. 

The  fruitage  of  this  apple-tree 
Winds  and  our  flag  of  stripe  and  star 
Shall  bear  to  coasts  that  lie  afar. 
Where  men  shall  wonder  at  the  view, 
And  ask  in  what  fair  groves  they  grew  ; 

And  sojourners  beyond  the  sea 
Shall  think  of  childhood's  careless  day 
And  long,  long  hours  of  summer  i>lay, 

In  the  shade  of  the  apple-tree. 

Each  year  shall  give  this  apple-tree 
A  broader  flush  of  roseate  bloom, 
A  deeper  maze  of  verdurous  gloom, 
And  loosen,  when  the  frost-clouds  lower, 
The  crisp  brown  leaves  in  thicker  shower. 

The  years  sliall  come  and  pass,  but  we 
Shall  hear  no  longer,  where  we  lie, 
The  summer's  songs,  the  autumn's  sigh, 

In  the  boughs  of  the  apple-tree. 

And  time  shall  waste  this  apple-tree. 
O,  when  its  aged  branches  throw 
Thin  shadows  on  the  ground  below, 
Shall  fraud  and  force  aud  iron  will 
Oppress  the  weak  and  helpless  still  ? 

What  shall  the  tasks  of  mercy  be. 
Amid  the  toils,  the  strifes,  the  tears 
Of  those  who  live  when  length  of  years 

Is  wasting  this  apple-tree  ? 

"  Who  planted  this  old  apple-tree  ?  " 
The  children  of  that  distant  day 
Thus  to  some  aged  man  shall  say ; 
And,  gazing  on  its  mossy  stem. 
The  gray-haired  man  shall  answer  them : 
"A  poet  of  the  land  was  he, 
Born  in  the  rude  but  good  old  times  ; 
'T  is  said  he  made  some  quaint  old  rhymes 
On  planting  the  apple-tree." 

William  Cullen  Bryant. 

THE    MAIZE. 

"  That  precious  seed  into  the  furrow  cast 
Earliest  in  spring-time  crowns  the  harvest  last.'' 

Phcebe  Carv. 

SONG  for  the  plant  of  my  own  native  west, 
Where  nature  and  freedom  reside. 
By  plenty  still  crowned,  and  by  peace  ever 
blest, 
To  the  corn  !  the  green  corn  of  her  pride ! 


BEAUTIES   OF   NATURE. 


161 


In  climes  of  the  east  has  the  olive  been  sung, 
And  the  grape  been  the  theme  of  their  lays  ; 

But  for  thee  shall  a  harp  of  the  backwoods  be  strung, 
Thou  bright,  ever  beautiful  maize  ! 

Afar  in  the  forest  the  rude  cabins  rise, 

And  send  up  their  pillars  of  smoke. 
And  the  tops  of  their  columns  are  lost  in  the  skies, 

O'er  the  heads  of  the  cloud-kissing  oak  ; 
Near  the  skirt  of  the  grove,  where  the  sturdy    arm 
swings 

The  axe  till  the  old  giant  sways, 
And  echo  repeats  ever}'  blow  as  it  rings, 

Shoots  the  green  and  the  glorious  maize  ! 

There  buds  of  the  buckeye  in  spring  are  the  first, 

And  the  willow's  gold  hair  then  appears. 
And  snowy  the  cups  of  the  dogwood  that  burst 

By  the  red  bud,  with  pink-tinted  tears. 
And  strip>ed  the  bolls  which  the  poppy  holds  up 

For  the  dew,  and  the  sun's  yellow  rays, 
And  brown  is  the  pawpaw's  shade-blossoming  cup, 

In  the  wood,  near  the  sun-loving  maize ! 

AVhen  through  the  dark  soil  the  bright  steel  of  the 
plough 

Turns  the  mould  from  its  unbroken  bed 
The  ploughman  is  cheered  by  the  finch  on  the  bough, 

And  the  blackbird  doth  follow  his  tread. 
And  idle,  afar  on  the  landscape  descried, 

The  deep-lowing  kine  slowly  graze, 
And  nibbling  the  grass  on  the  sunny  hillside 

Are  the  sheep,  hedged  away  from  the  maize. 

With  spring-time  and  culture,  in  martial  array 

It  waves  its  green  broadswords  on  high, 
And  fights  with  the  gale,  in  a  fluttering  fray, 

And  the  sunbeams,  which  fall  from  the  sky ; 
It  strikes  its  green  blades  at  the  zephyrs  at  noon, 

And  at  night  at  the  swift-flying  fays. 
Who  ride  through   the  darkness  the  beams  of  the 
moon. 

Through  the  spears  and  the  flags  of  the  maize  ! 

When  the  summer  is  fierce  ^till  its  banners  are  green, 

Each  warrior's  long  beard  groweth  red, 
His  emerald-bright  sword  is  sharp-pointed  and  keen. 

And  golden  his  tassel-plumed  head. 
As  a  host  of  armed  knights  set  a  monarch  at  naught, 

That  defy  the  day-god  to  his  gaze, 
And,  revived  every  morn  from  the  battle  that's  fought. 

Fresh  stand  the  green  ranks  of  the  maize  ! 

But  brown  comes  the  autumn,  and  sear  gjows  the 
corn. 

And  the  woods  like  a  rainbow  are  dressed, 
And  but  for  the  cock  and  the  noontide  horn 

Old  time  would  be  tempted  to  rest. 
The  humming  bee  fans  off  a  shower  of  gold 

From  the  mullein's  long  rod  as  it  sways, 
And  dry  grow  the  leaves  which  protecting  infold 

The  ears  of  the  well-ripened  maize  ! 
11 


At  length  Indian  summer,  the  lovely,  doth  come, 

With  its  blue  frosty  nights,  and  days  still. 
When  distinctly  clear  sounds  the  waterfall's  hum, 

And  the  sun  smokes  ablaze  on  the  hill ! 
A  dim  veil  hangs  over  the  landscape  and  flood, 

And  the  hills  are  all  mellowed  in  haze, 
While  Fall,  creeping  on  like  a  monk  'neath  his  hood, 

Plucks  the  thick-rustling  wealth  of  the  maize. 

And  the  heavy  wains  creak  to  the  barns  large  and  gray, 

Where  the  treasure  securely  we  hold. 
Housed  safe  from  the  tempest,  dry-sheltered  away, 

Our  blessing  more  precious  than  gold  ! 
And  long  from  this  manna  that  springs  from  the  sod 

Shall  we  gratefully  give  him  the  praise, 
The  source  of  all  bounty,  our  Father  and  God, 

Who  sent  us  from  heaven  the  maize  ! 

William  W.  Fosdick. 


© 


WINTER  PICTURES. 

OWN  swept  the  chill  wind  from  the  mountain 
peak. 
From  the  snow  five  thousand  summers  old  ; 
On  open  wold  and  hill-top  bleak 
It  had  gathered  all  the  cold. 
And  whirled  it  like  sleet  on  the  wanderer's  cheek ; 
It  carried  a  shiver  everywhere 
From  the  unleafed  boughs  and  pastures  bare  ; 
The  little  brook  heard  it  and  built  a  roof 
'Neath  which  he  could  house  him,  winter-proof 
All  night  by  the  white  stars'  frosty  gleams 
He  groined  his  arches  and  matched  his  beams ; 
Slender  and  clear  were  his  crystal  spars 
As  the  lashes  of  light  that  trim  the  stars  : 
He  sculptured  every  summer  delight 
In  his  halls  and  chambers  out  of  sight ; 
Sometimes  his  tinkling  waters  slipt 
Down  through  a  frost-leaved  forest-crypt. 
Long,  sparkling  aisles  of  steel-stemmed  trees. 
Bending  to  counterfeit  a  breeze  ; 
Sometimes  the  roof  no  fretwork  knew 
But  silvery  mosses  that  downward  grew 
Sometimes  it  was  carved  in  sharp  relief 
With  quaint  arabesques  of  ice-fern  leaf; 
Sometimes  it  was  simply  smooth  aud  clear 
For  the  gladness  of  heaven  to  shine  through,  and  here 
He  had  caught  the  nodding  bulrush  tops 
And  hung  them  thickly  with  diamond  drops. 
Which  crj'stalled  the  beams  of  moon  and  sun. 
And  made  a  star  of  every  one. 

Within  the  hall  are  song  and  laughter. 
The  cheeks  of  Christmas  grow  red  and  jolly, 

And  sprouting  is  every  corbel  and  rafter 
With  the  lightsome  green  of  ivy  and  holly  ; 

Through  the  deepgulf  of  the  chimney  wide 

Wallows  the  yule-log's  roaring  tide  ; 

The  broad  flame-pennons  droop  and  flap 
And  belly  and  tug  as  a  flag  in  the  wind ; 


162 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


Like  a  locust  shrills  the  imprisoned  sap, 
Hunted  to  death  in  its  galleries  blind  ; 

And  swift  little  troops  of  silent  sparks, 
Now  pausing,  now  scattering  away  as  in  fear, 

Go  threading  the  soot-forest's  tangled  darks 
Like  herds  of  startled  deer. 

But  the  wind  without  was  eager  and  sharp, 
Of  Sir  Launfal's  gray  hair  it  makes  a  harp, 
And  rattles  and  rings 
The  icy  strings, 
Singing,  in  dreary  monotone, 
A  Christmas  carol  of  its  own. 
Whose  burden  still,  as  he  might  gfuess, 
Was — "Shelterless,  shelterless,  shelterless  ! " 
The  voice  of  the  seneschal  flared  like  a  torch 
As  he  shouted  the  wanderer  away  from  the  porch, 
And  he  sat  in  the  gateway  and  saw  all  night 
The  great  hall-fire,  so  cheery  and  bold. 
Through  the  window  slits  of  the  castle  old, 
Build  out  its  piers  of  ruddy  light 
Against  the  drift  of  the  cold. 

There  was  never  a  leaf  on  bush  or  tree. 
The  bare  boughs  rattled  shudderingly  ; 
The  river  was  dumb  and  could  not  speak. 

For  the  weaver  winter  its  shroud  had  spun  ; 
A  single  crow  on  the  tree-top  bleak 

From  his  shining  feathers  shed  off  the  cold  sun  ; 
Again  it  was  morning,  but  shrunk  and  cold. 
As  if  her  veins  were  sapless  and  old, 
And  she  rose  up  decrepitly 
For  a  last  dim  look  at  earth  and  sea. 

James  Russell  Lowell. 


THE  MIDNIGHT  OCEAN. 

'  T  is  the  midnight  hour : — the  beauteous  sea, 

Calm  as  the  cloudless  heaven,  the  heaven  dis- 
closes. 
While  many  a  sparkling  star,  in  quiet  glee. 
Far  down  within  the  watery  sky  reposes. 
As  if  the  ocean's  heart  were  stirred 
With  inward  life,  a  sound  is  heard, 
Like  that  of  dreamer  murmuring  in  his  sleep  ; 
'Tis  partly  the  billow,  and  partly  the  air. 
That  lies  like  a  garment  floating  fair 
Above  the  happy  deep. 
The  sea,  I  ween,  cannot.be  fanned 
By  evening  freshness  from  tlie  land, 
For  the  land  it  is  far  away ; 
But  God  hath  willed  that  the  sky-bom  breeze 
In  the  centre  of  the  loneliest  seas 
Should  ever  sport  and  play. 
The  mighty  moon  she  sits  above, 
Encircled  with  a  zone  of  love, 
A  zone  of  dim  and  tender  light 
That  makes  her  wakeful  eye  more  bright : 
She  seems  to  shine  with  a  sunny  ray. 
And  the  night  looks  like  a  mellowed  day ! 


The  gracious  mistress  of  the  main 

Hath  now  an  undisturbed  reign. 

And  from  her  silent  throne  looks  down. 

As  upon  children  of  her  own, 

On  the  waves  that  lend  their  gentle  breast 

In  gladness  for  her  couch  of  rest ! 

John  Wilson. 

SPRING  IN  THE  SOUTH. 

■PRING,  with  that  nameless  pathos  in  the  air 
Which  dwells  with  all  things  fair. 
Spring,  with  her  golden  suns  and  silver  rain, 
Is  with  us  once  again. 

Out  in  the  lonely  woods  the  jasmine  burns 
Its  fragrant  lamps,  and  turns 
Into  a  royal  court  with  green  festoons 
The  banks  of  dark  lagoons. 

In  the  deep  heart  of  every  forest  tree 

The  blood  is  all  aglee. 

And  there's  a  look  about  the  leafless  bowers. 

As  if  they  dreamed  of  flowers. 

Yet  still  on  every  side  we  trace  the  hand 
Of  winter  in  the  land. 

Save  where  the  maple  reddens  on  the  lawn. 
Flushed  by  the  season's  dawn  ; 

Or  where,  like  those  strange  semblances  we  find 

That  age  to  childhood  bind. 

The  elm  puts  on,  as  if  in  nature's  scorn. 

The  brown  of  autumn  corn. 

As  yet  the  turf  is  dark,  although  you  know 
That,  not  a  span  below, 

A  thousand  germs  are  groping  through  the  gloom, 
And  soon  will  burst  their  tomb. 

In  gardens  you  may  note  amid  the  dearth 

The  crocus  breaking  earth  : 

And  near  the  snow-drop's  tender  white  and  green. 

The  violet  in  its  screen. 

But  many  gleams  and  shadows  needs  must  pass 

Along  the  budding  grass. 

And  weeks  go  by,  before  the  enamored  south 

Shall  kiss  the  rose's  mouth. 

Still  there's  sense  of  blossoms  yet  unborn 

In  the  sweet  airs  of  morn  ; 

One  almost  looks  to  see  the  very  street 

Grow  purple  at  his  feet. 

At  times  a  fragrant  breeze  comes  floating  by, 

And  brings,  you  know  not  why, 

A  feeling  as  when  eager  crowds  await 

Before  a  palace  gate 

Some  wondrous  pageant ;  and  you  scarce  would  start. 

If  from  a  beech's  heart 

A  blue-eyed  Dryad,  stepping  forth,  should  say, 

"  Behold  me  1  I  am  May  !  " 

Henry  Timrod. 


BEAUTIES   OF   NATURE. 


16c 


THREE  SUMMER  STUDIES. 

MORNING. 

'HE  cock  has  crowed.     I  hear  the  doors  un- 
barred ; 
Down  to  the  grass-grown  porch  my  way  I 
t  take, 

And  hear,  beside  the  well  within  the  yard, 

Full  many  an  ancient,  quacking,  splashing  drake. 
And  gabbling  goose,  and  noisy  brood-hen — all 
Responding  to  yon  strutting  gobbler's  call. 

The  dew  is  thick  upon  the  velvet  grass, 

The  porch-rails  hold  it  in  translucent  drops. 

And  as  the  cattle  from  the  enclosure  pass. 
Each  one,  alternate,  slowly  halts  and  crops 

The  tall,  green  spears,  with  all  their  dewy  load, 

Which  grow  beside  the  well-known  pasture-roud. 

A  humid  polish  is  on  all  the  leaves — 
The  birds  flit  in  and  out  with  varied  notes. 

The  noisy  swallows  twitter  'neath  the  eaves, 
A  partridge  whistle  through  the  garden  floats, 

"While  yonder  gaudy  peacock  harshly  cries, 

As  red  and  gold  flush  all  the  eastern  skies. 

Up  comes  the  sun  !  Through  the  dense  leaves  a  spot 
Of  splendid  light  drinks  up  the  dew  ;  the  breeze 

Which  late  made  leafy  music,  dies ;  the  day  grows  hot. 
And  .slumbrous  sounds  come  from  marauding  bees  ; 

The  burnished  river  like  a  sword-blade  shines, 

Save  where  't  is  shadowed  by  the  solemn  pines, 

NOON. 

Over  the  farm  is  brooding  silence  now — 
No  reaper's  song,  no  raven's  clangor  harsh, 

No  bleat  of  sheep,  no  distant  low  of  cow, 

No  croak  of  frogs  within  the  spreading  marsh, 

No  bragging  cock  from  littered  farmj^ard  crows, — 

The  scene  is  steeped  in  silence  and  repose. 

A  trembling  haze  hangs  over  all  the  fields  — 

The  panting  cattle  in  the  river  stand. 
Seeking  tlie  coolness  which  its  wave  scarce  yields ; 

It  seems  a  Sabbath  through  the  drowsy  land  ; 
So  hushed  is  all  beneath  the  summer's  spell, 
I  pause  and  listen  for  some  faint  church-bell. 

The  leaves  are  motionless,  the  song-birds  mute ; 

The  very  air  seems  somnolent  and  sick : 
The  spreading  branches  with  o'er-ripened  fruit 

Show  in  the  sunshine  all  their  clusters  thick, 
While  now  and  then  a  mellow  apple  falls 
With  a  dull  thud  within  the  orchard's  walls, 

Th2  sky  has  but  one  solitary  cloud 

Like  a  dark  island  in  a  sea  of  light ; 
The  parching  furrows  'twixt  the  corn-rows  ploughed 

Seem  f  ;;rly  dancing  in  my  dazzled  sight, 
While  over  yonder  road  a  dusty  haze 
Grows  luminous  beneath  the  sun's  fierce  blaze. 


EVENING. 

That  solitary  cloud  grows  dark  and  wide. 
While  distant  thunder  rumbles  in  the  air — 

A  fitful  ripple  break's  the  river's  tide — 
The  lazy  cattle  are  no  longer  there, 

But  homeward  come,  in  long  procession  slow, 

With  many  a  bleat  and  many  a  plaintive  low. 

Darker  and  wider  spreading  o'er  the  west, 
Advancing  clouds,  each  in  fantastic  form, 

And  mirrored  turrets  on  the  river's  breast, 
Tell  in  ad\-ance  the  coming  of  a  storm — 

Closer  and  brighter  glares  the  lightning's  flash, 

And  louder,  nearer  sounds  the  thunder's  crash. 

The  air  of  evening  is  intensely  hot, 

The  breeze  feels  heated  as  it  fans  my  brows — 
Now.'sullen  rain-drops  patter  down  like  shot, 

Strike  in  the  grass,  or  rattle  mid  the  boughs. 
A  sultry  lull,  and  then  a  g^st  again — 
And  now  I  see  the  thick  advancing  rain  ! 

It  fairly  hisses  as  it  drives  along, 

And  where  it  strikes  breaks  up  in  silvery  spray 
As  if 't  were  dancing  to  tlie  fitful  song 

Made  by  the  trees,  which  twist  themselves  and  sw: 
In  contest  with  the  wind,  that  rises  fast 
Until  the  breeze  becomes  a  furious  blast. 

And  now,  the  sudden,  fitful  storm  has  fled. 
The  clouds  lie  piled  up  in  the  splendid  west, 

In  massive  shadow  tipped  with  purplish  red, 
Crimson  or  gold.     The  scene  is  one  of  rest ; 

And  on  the  bosom  of  yon  still  lagoon 

I  see  the  crescent  cJf  tha  pallid  moon. 

James  Barron  Hope. 


A  SNOW-STORM. 

SCENE   IN  A  VERMONT  WINTER. 

IS  a  fearful  night  in  the  winter  time. 
As  cold  as  it  ever  can  be ; 
The  roar  of  the  blast  is  heard  like  the  chim; 
T  Of  the  waves  on  an  angry  sea. 

The  moon  is  full ;  but  her  silver  light 
The  stonti  dashes  out  with  its  wings  to-night ; 
And  over  the  sky  from  south  to  north 
Not  a  star  is  seen,  as  the  wind  comes  forth 
In  the  strength  of  a  mighty  glee. 

All  day  had  the  snow  come  down — all  day 

As  it  never  came  down  before  ; 
And  over  the  hills,  at  sunset,  lay 

Some  two  or  three  feet,  or  more  ; 
The  fence  was  lost,  and  the  wall  of  stone  ; 
The  windows  blocked  and  the  well-curbs  gone; 
The  haystack  had  grown  to  a  mountain  lift, 
And  the  wood-pile  looked  like  a  monster  drift, 

As  it  lay  by  the  farmer's  door. 


164 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


The  night  sets  in  on  a  world  of  snow, 
While  the  air  grows  sharp  and  chill, 

And  the  warning  roar  of  a  fearful  blow 
Is  heard  on  the  distant  hill ;  , 

And  the  norther,  see  !  on  the  mountain  peak 

In  his  breath  how  the  old  trees  writhe  and  shriek  ! 

He  shouts  on  the  plain,  ho-ho  !  ho-ho  ! 

He  drives  from  his  nostrils  the  blinding  snow, 
And  growls  with  a  savage  will. 

Such  a  night  as  this  to  be  found  abroad, 

In  the  drifts  and  the  freezing  air, 
Sits  a  shivering  dog,  in  the  field,  by  the  road, 

With  the  snow  in  his  shaggy  hair. 
He  shuts  his  eyes  to  the  wind  and  growls  ; 
He  lifts  his  head,  and  moans  and  howls  ; 
Then  crouching  low,  from  the  cutting  sleet, 
His  nose  is  pressed  on  his  quivering  feet — 

Pray,  what  does  the  dog  do  there  ? 

A  farmer  came  from  the  village  plain — 

But  he  lost  the  traveled  way  ; 
And  for  hours  he  trod  with  miglit  and  main 

A  path  for  his  horse  and  sleigh  ; 
But  colder  still  the  cold  winds  blew. 
And  deeper  still  the  deep  drifts  grew, 
And  his  mare,  a  beautiful  Morgan  brown. 
At  last  in  her  struggles  floundered  down, 

Where  a  log  in  a  noUow  lay. 

In  vain,  with  a  neigh  and  a  frenzied  snort. 

She  plunged  in  the  drifting  snow, 
While  her  master  urged,  till  his  breath  grew  short, 

With  a  word  and  a  gentle  blow ; 
•   But  the  snow  was  deep,  and  the  tugs  were  tight ; 
His  hands  were  numb  and  had  lost  their  might ; 
So  he  wallowed  back  to  his  half-filled  sleigh. 
And  strove  to  shelter  himself  till  day, 

With  his  coat  and  the  buffalo. 

He  has  given  the  last  faint  jerk  of  the  rein. 

To  rouse  up  his  dying  steed  ; 
And  the  poor  dog  howls  to  the  blast  in  vain, 

For  help  in  his  master's  need. 
For  a  while  he  strives  with  a  wistful  cry 
To  catch  a  glance  from  his  drowsy  eye, 
And  wags  his  tail  if  the  rude  winds  flap 
The  skirt  of  the  buffalo  over  his  lap. 

And  whines  when  he  takes  no  heed. 

The  wind  goes  down  and  the  storm  is  o'er — 

'T  is  the  hour  of  midnight,  past ; 
The  old  trees  writhe  and  bend  no  more 

In  the  whirl  of  the  rushing  blast. 
The  silent  moon  with  her  peaceful  light 
Looks  down  on  the  hills  with  snow  all  white, 
And  the  giant  shadow  of  Camel's  Hump, 
The  blasted  pine  and  the  ghostly  stump. 

Afar  on  the  plain  are  cast. 


But  cold  and  dead  by  the  hidden  log 

Are  they  who  came  from  the  town — 
The  man  in  his  sleigh,  and  his  faithful  dog. 

And  his  beautiful  Morgan  brown — 
In  the  wide  snow  desert,  far  and  grand. 
With  his  cap  on  his  head  and  the  reins  in  his  hand — 
The  dog  with  his  nose  on  his  master's  feet. 
And  the  mare  half  seen  through  the  crusted  sleet, 

Where  she  lay  when  she  floundered  down. 

Charles  Gamage  Eastman. 

VIEW  FROM  THE  EUGANEAN  HILLS,*  NORTH 
ITALY. 


IB 


ANY  a  green  isle  needs  must  be 
In  the  deep  wide  sea  of  misery. 
Or  the  mariner,  worn  and  wan, 
Never  thus  could  voyage  on 
Day  and  night,  and  night  and  day. 
Drifting  on  his  dreary  way. 
With  the  solid  darkness  black 
Closing  round  his  vessel's  track  ; 
Whilst  above,  the  sunless  sky, 
Big  with  clouds,  hangs  heavily, 
And  behind,  the  tempest  fleet 
Hurries  on  with  lightning  feet. 
Riving  sail  and  cord  and  plank 
Till  the  ship  has  almost  drank 
Death  from  the  o'erbrimming  deep ; 
And  sinks  down,  down,  like  that  sleep 
When  the  dreamer  seems  to  be 
Weltering  through  eternity  ; 

And  the  dim  low  line  before 
Of  a  dark  and  distant  shore 
Still  recedes,  as,  ever  still. 
Longing  with  divided  will, 
But  no  power  to  seek  or  shun, 
He  is  ever  drifted  on 
O'er  the  unreposing  wave 
To  the  haven  of  the  grave. 

Ay,  many  flowering  islands  lie 

In  the  waters  of  wide  agony  : 

To  such  a  one  this  morn  was  led 

My  bark,  by  soft  winds  piloted. 

— Mid  the  mountains  Euganean 

I  stood  listening  to  the  poean 

With  which  the  legioned  rooks  did  hail 

The  sun's  uprise  majestical : 

Gathering  round  witli  wings  all  hoar, 

Through  the  dewy  mist  they  soar 

Like  gray  shades,  till  the  eastern  heaven 

Bursts,  and  then,  as  clouds  of  even, 

Flecked  with  fire  and  azure,  lie 

In  the  unfathomable  sky, 

So  their  plumes  of  purple  grain, 

Starred  with  drops  of  golden  rain, 


*  The  lonely  mountains  which  surround  what  was  once  the  re- 
treat, and  is  now  the  sepulchre,  of  Petrarch. 


BEAUTIES  OF   NATURE. 


165 


Gleam  above  the  sunlight  woods, 

As  in  silent  multitudes 

On  the  morning's  fitful  gale, 

Through  the  broken  mist  they  sail ; 

And  the  vapors  cloven  and  gleaming 

Follow,  down  the  dark  steep  streaming. 

Till  all  is  bright  and  clear  and  still 

Round  the  solitary  hill. 

Beneath  is  spread  like  a  green  sea 

The  waveless  plain  of  Lombardy, 

Bounded  by  the  vaporous  air, 

Islanded  by  cities  fair  ; 

Underneath  day's  azure  eyes, 

Ocean's  nursling,  Venice,  lies — 

A  peopled  labyrinth  of  walls, 

Amphitrite's  destined  halls, 

Which  her  hoary  sire  now  paves 

With  his  blue  and  beaming  waves. 

Lo !  the  sun  upsprings  behind, 

Broad,  red,  radiant,  half  reclined 

On  the  level  quivering  line 

Of  the  waters  crystalline  ; 

And  before  that  chasm  of  light. 

As  within  a  furnace  bright, 

Column,  tower,  and  dome,  and  spire 

Shine  like  obelisks  of  fire, 

Pointing  with  inconstant  motion 

From  the  altar  of  dark  ocean 

To  the  sapphire-tinted  skies  ; 

As  the  flames  of  sacrifice 

From  the  marble  shrines  did  rise, 

As  to  pierce  the  dome  of  gold 

Where  Apollo  spoke  of  old. 

Sun-girt  city  !  thou  hast  been 
Ocean's  child,  and  then  his  queen ; 
Now  is  come  a  darker  day. 
And  thou  soon  must  be  his  prey. 
If  the  power  that  raised  thee  here 
Hallow  so  thy  watery  bier. 
A  less  drear  ruin  then  than  now, 
With  thy  conquest-branded  brow 
Stooping  to  the  slave  of  slaves 
From  thy  throne  among  the  waves, 
Wilt  thou  be  when  the  sea-mew 
Flies,  as  once  before  it  flew, 
O'er  thine  isles  depopulate. 
And  all  is  in  its  ancient  state. 
Save  where  many  a  palace-gate 
With  green  sea-flowers  overgrown 
Like  a  rock  of  ocean's  own. 
Topples  o'er  the  abandoned  sea 
As  the  tides  change  sullenly. 
The  fisher  on  his  watery  way 
Wandering  at  the  close  of  day 
Will  spread  his  sail  and  seize  his  oar 
Till  he  pass  the  gloomy  shore, 
Lest  thy  dead  should,  from  their  sleep 
Bursting  o'er  the  starlight  deep. 


Lead  a  rapid  mask  of  death 
O'er  the  waters  of  his  path. 

Noon  descends  around  me  nou^ : 

'T  is  the  noon  of  autumn's  glow, 

When  a  soft  and  purple  mist, 

Like  a  vaporous  amethyst. 

Or  an  air-dissolv6d  star. 

Mingling  light  and  fragrance,  far 

From  the  curved  horizon's  bound 

To  the  point  of  heaven's  profound, 

Fills  the  overflowing  sky ; 

And  the  plains  that  silent  lie 

Underneath  ;  the  leaves  unsodden 

Where  the  infant  frost  has  trodden 

With  his  morning-winged  feet, 

Whose  bright  print  is  gleaming  yet ; 

And  the  red  and  golden  vines. 

Piercing  with  their  trellised  lines 

The  rough,  dark-skirted  wilderness  ; 

The  dun  and  bladed  grass  no  less. 

Pointing  from  this  hoary  tower 

In  the  windless  air  ;  the  flower 

Glimmering  at  my  feet ;  the  line 

Of  the  olive-sandalled  Apennine 

In  the  south  dimly  islanded  ; 

And  the  Alps,  whose  snows  are  spread 

High  between  the  clouds  and  sun  ; 

And  of  living  things  each  one  ; 

And  my  spirit,  which  so  long 

Darkened  this  swift  dream  of  song — 

Interpenetrated  lie 

By  the  glory  Qf  the  sky  ; 

Be  it  love,  light,  harmony, 

Odor,  or  the  soul  of  all 

Which  from  heaven  like  dew  doth  fall. 

Or  the  mind  which  feeds  this  verse 

Peopling  the  lone  universe. 

Noon  descends,  and  after  noon 

Autumn's  evening  meets  me  soon, 

Leading  the  infantine  moon 

And  that  one  star,  which  to  her 

Almost  seems  to  minister 

Half  the  crimson  light  she  brings 

From  the  sunset's  radiant  springs  ; 

And  the  soft  dreams  of  the  morn 

(Which  like  winged  winds  had  borne 

To  that  silent  isle,  which  lies 

Mid  remembered  agonies, 

The  frail  bark  of  this  lone  being) 

Pass,  to  other  suflferers  fleeing, 

And  its  ancient  pilot,  pain, 

Sits  beside  the  helm  again. 

Other  flowering  isles  must  be 

In  the  sea  of  life  and  agony  ; 

Other  spirits  float  and  flee 

O'er  that  gulf;  even  now,  perhaps. 

On  some  rock  the  wild  wave  wraps. 


166 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


With  folding  winds  they  waiting  sit 

For  my  bark,  to  pilot  it 

To  some  calm  and  blooming  cove. 

Where  for  me,  and  those  I  love, 

May  a  windless  bower  be  built. 

Far  from  passion,  pain,  and  guilt. 

In  a  dell  mid  lawny  hills, 

Which  the  wild  sea-murmur  fills, 

And  soft  sunshine,  and  the  sound 

Of  old  forests  echoing  round. 

And  the  light  and  smell  divine 

Of  all  flowers  that  breathe  and  shine. 

— We  may  live  so  happy  there, 

That  the  spirits  of  the  air, 

Envying  us,  may  even  entice 

To  our  healing  paradise 

The  polluting  multitude ; 

But  their  rage  would  be  subdued 

By  that  clime  divine  and  calm, 

And  the  winds  whose  wings  rain  balm 

On  the  uplifted  soul,  and  leaves 

Under  which  the  bright  sea  heaves ; 

While  each  breathless  interval 

In  their  whisperings  musical 

The  inspired  soul  suppUes 

With  its  own  deep  melodies ; 

And  the  love  which  heals  all  strife. 

Circling,  like  the  breath  of  life. 

All  things  in  that  sweet  abode 

W^ith  its  own  mild  brotherhood. 

They,  not  it,  would  change  ;  and  soon 

Every  sprite  beneath  the  moon 

Would  repent  its  envy  vain, 

And  the  earth  grow  young  again  I 

Percy  Bysshk  Shelley. 


THE  WINGED  WORSHIPPERS. 

ADDRESSED    TO    TWO    SWALLOWS    THAT    FLEW    INTO 
CHURCH    DURING    DIVINE    SERVICE. 

,AY,  guiltless  pair. 

What  seek  ye  from  the  fields  of  heaven  ? 

Ye  have  no  need  of  prayer ; 
Ye  have  no  sins  to  be  forgiven. 

Why  perch  ye  here. 
Where  mortals  to  their  Maker  bend  ? 

Can  your  pure  spirits  fear 
The  God  ye  never  could  offend  ? 

Ye  never  knew 
The  crimes  for  which  we  come  to  weep. 

Penance  is  not  for  you. 
Blessed  wanderers  of  the  upper  deep. 

To  you  'tis  given 
To  wake  sweet  nature's  untaught  lays  ; 

Beneath  the  arch  of  heaven 
To  chirp  away  a  life  of  praise. 


Then  spread  each  wing 
Far,  far  above,  o'er  lakes  and  lands, 

And  join  the  choirs  tliat  sing 
In  yon  blue  dome  not  reared  with  hands. 

Or,  if  ye  stay. 
To  note  the  consecrated  hour. 

Teach  me  the  airy  way. 
And  let  me  try  your  envied  power. 

Above  the  crowd 
On  upward  wings  could  I  but  fly, 

I'd  bathe  in  yon  bright  cloud. 
And  seek  the  stars  that  gem  the  sky. 

'T  were  heaven  indeed 
Through  fields  of  trackless  light  to  soar. 

On  nature's  charms  to  feed, 
And  natiu"e's  own  great  God  adore. 

Charles  Sprague. 


0  WINTER  !  WILT  THOU  NEVER  GO? 

WINTER !  wilt  thou  never,  never  go  ? 
O  summer!  but  I  weary  for  thy  coming. 
Longing  once  more  to  hear   the   Luggie 
flow, 

And  frugal  bees  laboriously  humming. 
Now  the  east-wind  diseases  the  infirm. 
And  must  crouch  in  comers  from  rough  weather ; 
Sometimes  a  winter  sunset  is  a  charm — 
When  the  fired  clouds,  compacted,  blaze  together. 
And  the  large  sun  dips  red  behind  the  hills. 
I,  from  my  window,  can  behold  this  pleasure  ; 
And  the  eternal  moon,  what  time  she  fills 
Her  orb  with  argent,  treading  a  soft  measure. 
With  queenly  motions  of  a  bridal  mood. 
Through  the  white  spaces  of  infinitude. 

David  Gray. 


THE  HEATH-COCK. 

,  OOD  morrow  to  thy  sable  beak 

And  glossy  plumage  dark  and  sleek. 
Thy  crimson  moon  and  azure  eye. 
Cock  of  the  heath,  so  wildly  shy  : 
I  see  thee  slyly  cowering  through 
That  wiry  web  of  silvery  dew. 
That  twinkles  in  the  morning  air. 
Like  casements  of  my  lady  fair. 

A  maid  there  is  in  yonder  tower, 
Who,  p>eeping  from  her  early  bower. 
Half  shows,  like  thee,  her  simple  wile. 
Her  braided  hair  and  morning  smile. 
The  rarest  things,  with  wayward  will. 
Beneath  the  covert  hide  them  still ; 
The  rarest  things  to  break  of  day 
Look  shortly  forth,  and  slirink  away. 


BEAUTIES   OF   NATURE. 


167 


A  fleeting  moment  of  delight 
I  sunned  me  in  her  cheering  sight ; 
As  short,  I  ween,  the  time  will  be 
That  I  shall  parley  hold  with  thee. 
Through  Snowdon's  mist  red  beams  the  day, 
The  climbing  herd-boy  chants  his  lay, 
The  gnat-flies  dance  their  sunny  ring — 
Thou  art  already  on  the  wing. 

Joanna  Baillie. 

MOONLIGHT  ON  THE  PRAIRIE. 

FROM   "  EVANGELINE." 

|EAUTIFUL  was  the  night.     Behind  the  black 
wall  of  the  forest, 
Tipping  its  summit  with  silver,  arose  the  moon. 
On  the  river 

Fell  here  and  there  through  the  branches  a  tremulous 
gleam  of  the  moonlight. 

Like  the  sweet  thoughts  of  love  on  a  darkened  and  de- 
vious spirit. 

Nearer  and  round  about  her,  the  manifold  flowers  of 
the  garden 

Poured  out  their  souls  in  odors,  that  were  their  prayers 
and  confessions 

Unto  the  night,  as  it  went  its  way,  like  a  silent  Carthu- 
sian. 

Fuller  of  fragrance  than  they,  and  as  heavy  with  shad- 
ows and  night-dews, 

Hung  the  heart  of  the  maiden.     The  calm  and  the 
magical  moonlight 

Seemed  to  inundate  her  soul  with  indefinable  longings, 

As,  through  the  garden  gate,  and  beneath  the  shade  of 
the  oak-trees, 

Passed  she  along  the  path  to  the  edge  of  the  measure- 
less prairie. 

Silent  it  lay,  with  a  silvery  haze  upon  it,  and  fire-flies 

Gleaming  and  floating  away  in  mingled  and  infinite 
numbers. 

Over  her  head  the  stars,  the  thoughts  of  God  in  the 
heavens, 

Shone  on  the  eyes  of  man,  who  had  ceased  to  marvel 
and  worship. 

Save  when  a  blazing  comet  was  seen  on  the  walls  of 
that  temple, 

As  if  a  hand  had  appeared  and  written  upon  them, 
"Upharsin." 

And  the  soul  of  the  maiden,  between  the  stars  and  the 
fire-flies, 

Wandered  alone,  and  she  cried,   "  O  Gabriel !  O  my 
beloved ! 

Art  thou  so  near  unto  me,  and  yet  I  cannot  behold 
thee? 


Art  thou  so  near  unto  me,  and  yet  thy  voice  does  not 
reach  me  ? 

Ah  !  how  often  thy  feet  have  trod  this  path  to  the  prai- 
rie ! 

Ah !  how  often  thine  eyes  have  looked  on  the  wood- 
lands around  me ! 

Ah  !  how  often  beneath  this  oak,  returning  from  labor, 

Thou  hast  lain  down  to  rest,  and  to  dream  of  me  in 
thy  slumbers. 

When  shall  these  eyes  behold,  these  arms  be  folded 
about  thee?" 

Loud  and  sudden  and  near  the  note  of  a  whip-poor- 
will  sounded 

Like  a  flute  in  the  woods ;   and   anon,   tlirough  the 
neighboring  thickets, 

Farther  and  farther  away  it  floated  and  dropped  into 
silence. 

"Patience!"  whispered  the  oaks  from  oracular  cav- 
erns of  darkness ; 

And,   from  the  moonlit  meadow,   a  sigh  responded, 
"To-morrow ! " 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


GOD  EVERYWHERE  IN  NATURE. 

'OW  desolate  were  nature,  and  how  void 
Of  every  charm,  how  like  a  naked  waste 
Of  Africa,  were  not  a  present  God 
Beheld  employing,  in  its  various  scenes, 
His  active  might  to  animate  and  adorn ! 
What  life  and  beauty,  when,  in  all  that  breathes, 
Or  moves,  or  grows,  his  hand  is  viewed  at  work? 
When  it  is  viewed  unfolding  every  bud, 
Each  blossom  tingeing,  shaping  every  leaf, 
Wafting  each  cloud  that  passes  o'er  the  sky. 
Rolling  each  billow,  moving  every  wing 
That  fans  the  air,  and  every  warbling  throat 
Heard  in  the  tuneful  woodlands  !    In  the  least 
As  well  as  in  the  greatest  of  his  works 
Is  ever  manifest  his  presence  kind  ; 
As  well  in  swarms  of  glittering  insects,  seen 
Quick  to  and  fro  within  a  foot  of  air, 
Dancing  a  merry  hour,  then  seen  no  more. 
As  in  the  systems  of  resplendent  worlds, 
Through  time  revolving  in  unbounded  space. 
His  eye,  while  comprehending  in  one  view 
The  whole  creation  fixes  full  on  me ; 
As  on  me  shines  the  sun  with  his  full  blaze, 
While  o'er  the  hemisphere  he  spreads  the  same. 
His  hand,  while  holding  oceans  in  its  palm, 
And  compassing  the  skies,  surrounds  my  life. 
Guards  the  poor  rushlight  from  the  blast  of  death. 

Carlos  Wilcox. 


HEROISM  AND  IDYENTURE. 


THE  PILOT. 

OHN  MAYNARD  was  well  known 
in  the  Lake  district  as  a  God  fearing, 
honest,  and  intelligent  man.      He 
was  pilot  on  a  steam-boat  from  De- 
troit to  Buffalo.    One  summer  after- 
noon— at  that  time  those  steamers 
seldom  carried   boats — smoke  was 
seen  ascending  from  below ;  and 
the  captain  called  out,  "Simpson, 
go  below  and  see  what  the  matter 
is  down  there." 
Simpson  came  up  with  his  face  as 
pale  as  ashes,  and  said,  "  Captain,  the  ship  is  on  fire !" 
Then  "Fire  !  fire  !  fire  !"  on  shipboard. 
All  hands  were  called  up  ;  buckets  of  water  were 
dashed  on  the  fire,  but  in  vain.      There   were  large 
quantities  of  rosin  and  tar  on  board,  and  it  was  found 
useless  to  attempt  to  save  the  ship.    The  passengers 
rushed  forward  and  inquired  of  the  pilot,   "  How  far 
are  we  from  Buffalo  ?" 
"Seven  miles." 

"  How  long  before  we  can  reach  there?" 
"  Three  quarters  of  an  hour  at  our  present  rate  of 
steam." 

"  Is  there  any  danger  ?" 

"  Danger  I  Here,  see  the  smoke  bursting  out ! — go 
forward,  if  you  would  save  your  lives  !" 

Passengers  and  crew — men,  women,  and  children — 
crowded  the  forward  part  of  the  ship.  John  Maynard 
stood  at  the  helm.  The  flames  burst  forth  in  a  sheet 
of  fire  ;  clouds  of  smoke  arose. 

The  captain  cried  out  through  his  trumpet,  "John 
Maynard  !" 
"Ay,  ay,  sir !" 
"  Are  you  at  the  helm  ?" 
"Ay,  ay,  sir!" 
"  How  does  she  head  ?" 
"  South-east  by  east,  sir." 

"  Head  her  south-east,  and  run  her  on  shore,"  said 
the  captain.      Nearer,   nearer,   yet  nearer,   she  ap- 
proached the  shore.      Again  the  captain  cried  out, 
"John  Maynard  I" 
The  response  came  feebly  this  time,  "  Ay,  ay,  sir !" 
"Can^ou  hold  on  five  minutes  longer,  John?"  he 
said. 
"  By  God's  help,  I  will !" 

The  old  man's  hair  was  scorched  from  the  scalp  ; 
one  hand  was  disabled  ; — his  knee  upon  the  stanchion, 
his  teeth  set,  his  other  hand  upon  the  wheel,  he  stood 
firm  as  a  rock.  He  beached  the  ship  ;  every  man, 
woman  and  child  was  saved,  as  John  Maynard 
dropped,  and  his  spirit  took  its  flight  to  God. 

John  B.  Gough. 


LOST  IN  THE  SNOW. 

HE  cold  winds  swept  the  mountain's  height, 
And  pathless  was  the  dreary  wild. 
And,  'mid  the  cheerless  houps  of  night, 
y  A  mother  wandered  with  her  child. 

As  through  the  drifted  snows  she  pressed, 
The  babe  was  sleeping  on  her  breast. 

And  colder  still  the  winds  did  blow. 

And  darker  hours  of  night  came  on, 
And  deeper  grew  the  drifts  of  snow — 

Her  limbs  were  chilled,  her  strength  was  gone- 
"  O  God,  she  cried,  in  accents  wild, 
"  If  I  must  perish,  save  my  child  ! " 

She  stripped  her  mantle  from  her  breast, 
And  bared  her  bosom  to  the  storm, 

And  round  the  child  she  wrapped  the  vest. 
And  smiled  to  think  her  babe  was  warm. 

With  one  cold  kiss,  one  tear  she  shed, 

And  sunk  upon  a  snowy  bed. 

At  dawn,  a  traveler  passed  by  : 

She  lay  beneath  a  snowy  veil  ; 
The  frost  of  death  was  in  her  eye  ; 

Her  cheek  was  cold,  and  hard,  and  pale — 
He  moved  the  robe  from  off  the  child  ; 
The  babe  looked  up,  and  sweetly  smiled. 

JOHN  MAYNARD. 

WAS  on  Lake  Erie's  broad  expanse, 
One  bright  midsummer  day. 
The  gallant  steamer  Ocean  Queen 
"^        Swept  proudly  on  her  way. 
Bright  faces  clustered  on  the  deck, 

Or  leaning  o'er  the  side. 
Watched  carelessly  the  feathery  foam, 
That  flecked  the  rippling  tide. 

Ah,  who  beneath  that  cloudless  sky, 

That  smiling  bends  serene, 
Could  dream  that  danger,  awful,  vast. 

Impended  o'er  the  scene — 
Could  dream  that  ere  an  hour  had  sped. 

That  frame  of  sturdy  oak 
Would  sink  beneath  the  lake's  blue  waves. 

Blackened  with  fire  and  smoke  ? 

A  seaman  sought  the  captain's  side, 

A  moment  whispered  low  ; 
The  captain's  swarthy  face  grew  pale. 

He  hurried  down  below. 
Alas,  too  late  1    Though  quick  and  sharp 

And  clear  his  orders  came, 
No  human  efforts  could  avail 

To  quench  the  insidious  flame. 


(108) 


hr- 


'^?^  V  j^- 


;id, 


height, 


Smps 


stripped  I: 


!E@  ME'   jy  LD  [£T 


HEROISM   AND   ADVENTURE. 


171 


But  yet  his  horse  was  not  a  whit 

Inclined  to  tarry  there  ; 
For  why  ?  his  owner  had  a  house 

Full  ten  miles  off,  at  Ware. 

So  like  an  arrow  swift  he  flew, 

Shot  by  an  archer  strong ; 
So  did  he  fly — which  brings  me  to 

The  middle  of  my  song, 

Away  went  Gilpin  out  of  breath. 

And  sore  against  his  will, 
Till  at  his  friend  the  calender's 

His  horse  at  last  stood  still. 

The  calender,  amazed  to  see 

His  neighbor  in  such  tiim, 
Laid  down  his  pipe,  flew  to  the  gate, 

And  thus  accosted  him  : 

"  What  news  ?  what  news  ?  your  tidings  tell — 
Tell  me  you  must  and  shall — 
Say  why  bareheaded  you  are  come, 
Or  why  you  come  at  all  ?" 

Now  Gilpin  had  a  pleasant  wit, 

And  loved  a  timely  joke  ; 
And  thus  unto  the  calender 

In  merry  guise  he  spoke  : 

"  I  came  because  your  horse  would  come  ; 
And,  if  I  well  forbode, 
My  hat  and  wig  will  soon  be  here — 
They  are  upon  the  road." 

The  calender,  right  glad  to  find 

His  friend  in  merry  pin, 
Returned  him  not  a  single  word. 

But  to  the  house  went  in. 

Whence  straight  he  came  with  hat  and  wig  ; 

A  wig  that  flowed  behind, 
A  hat  not  much  the  worse  for  wear, 

Each  comely  in  its  kind. 

He  held  them  up,  and  in  his  turn 
Thus  showed  his  ready  wit, 
"  My  head  is  twice  as  big  as  yours. 
They  therefore  needs  must  fit. 

"  But  let  me  scrape  the  dirt  away 
That  hangs  upon  your  face  ; 
And  stop  and  eat,  for  well  you  may 
Be  in  a  hungry  case." 

Said  John,  "  It  is  my  wedding  day. 

And  all  the  world  would  stare 
If  wife  should  dine  at  Edmonton, 

And  I  should  dine  at  Ware." 

So  turning  to  his  horse,  he  said, 

"I  am  in  haste  to  dine  ; 
'Twas  for  your  pleasure  you  came  here, 

You  shall  go  back  for  mine." 


Ah,  luckless  speech  and  bootless  boast. 

For  which  he  paid  full  dear  ; 
For,  while  he  spake,  a  braying  ass 

Did  sing  most  loud  and  clear. 

Whereat  his  horse  did  snort,  as  he 

Had  heard  a  lion  roar. 
And  galloped  off  with  all  his  might, 

As  he  had  done  before. 

Away  went  Gilpin,  and  away 

Went  Gilpin's  hat  and  wig  : 
He  lost  them  sooner  than  at  first ; 

For  why  ? — they  were  too  big. 

Now  Mistress  Gilpin,  when  she  saw 

Her  husband  posting  down, 
Into  the  country  far  away, 

She  pulled  out  half  a-crown  ; 

And  thus  unto  the  youth  she  said. 
That  drove  them  to  the  Bell, 
"  This  shall  be  yours  when  you  bring  back 
My  husband  safe  and  well." 

The  youth  did  ride,  and  soon  did  meet 

John  coming  back  again  ! 
Whom  in  a  trice  he  tried  to  stop, 

By  catching  at  his  rein  ; 

But  not  performing  what  he  meant, 

And  gladly  would  have  done, 
The  frighted  steed  he  frighted  more. 

And  made  him  faster  run. 

Away  went  Gilpin,  and  away, 

Went  post-boy  at  his  heels. 
The  post-boy's  horse  right  glad  to  miss 

The  lumbering  of  the  wheels. 

Six  gentlemen  upon  the  road 

Thus  seeing  Gilpin  fly. 
With  post-boy  scampering  in  the  rear, 

.  They  raised  the  hue  and  cry  : — 

'  Stop  thief!  stop  thief !  a  highwayman  !" 
Not  one  of  them  was  mute  ; 
And  all  and  each  that  passed  that  way 
Did  join  in  the  pursuit. 

And  now  the  turnpike  gates  again 

Flew  open  in  short  space  ; 
The  tollmen  thinking  as  before 

That  Gilpin  rode  a  race. 

And  so  he  did,  and  won  it  too, 

For  he  got  first  to  town  ; 
Nor  stopped  till  where  he  had  got  up 

He  did  again  get  down. 

Now  let  us  sing,  "  Long  live  the  king. 

And  Gilpin,  long  live  he  ; 
And,  when  he  next  doth  ride  abroad. 

May  I  be  there  to  see  !" 

William  Cowpkr. 


172 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


FALL  OF  TECUMSEH. 

'HAT  heavy-hoofed  coursers  the  wilderness 
roam, 
To  the  war-blast  indignantly  tramping  ? 
Their  mouths  are  all  white,  as  if  froste^ 
with  foam, 
The  steel-bit  impatiently  champing, 

'T  is  the  hand  of  the  mighty  that  grasps  the  rein, 

Conducting  the  free  and  the  fearless. 
Ah  !  see  them  rush  forward,  with  wild  disdain. 

Through  paths  unfrequented  and  cheerless. 

From  the  mountains  had  echoed  the  charge  of  death, 

Announcing  the  chivalrous  sally  ; 
The  savage  was  heard,  with  untrembling  breath, 

To  pour  his  response  to  the  valley. 

One  moment,  and  nought  but  the  bugle  was  heard. 
And  nought  but  the  war-whoop  given  ; 

The  next,  and  the  sky  seemed  convulsively  stirred, 
As  if  by  the  lightning  riven. 

The  din  of  the  steed,  and  the  sabred  stroke, 

The  blood-stifled  gasp  of  the  c'ying, 
Were  screened  by  the  curling  sulphur-smoke, 

That  upward  went  wildly  flying. 

In  the  mist  that  hung  over  the  field  of  blood, 
The  chief  of  the  horsemen  contended  ; 

His  rowels  were  bathed  in  the  purple  flood, 
That  fast  from  his  charger  descended. 

That  steed  reeled,  and  fell,  in  the  van  of  the  fight, 
But  the  rider  repressed  not  his  daring, 

Till  met  by  a  savage,  whose  rank  and  might 
Were  shown  by  the  plume  he  was  wearing. 

The  moment  was  fearful ;  a  mightier  foe 
Had  ne'er  swung  a  battle-axe  o'er  him  ; 

But  hope  nerved  his  arm  for  a  desperate  blow, 
And  Tecumseh  fell  prostrate  before  him. 

O  ne'er  may  the  nations  again  be  cursed 
With  conflict  so  dark  and  appalling  ! — 

Foe  grappled  with  foe,  till  the  life-blood  burst 
From  their  agonized  bosqms  in  falling. 

Gloom,  silence,  and  solitude,  rest  on  the  spot 
Where  the  hopes  of  the  red  man  perished  ; 

But  the  fame  of  the  hero  who  fell  shall  not. 
By  the  virtuous,  cease  to  be  cherished. 

He  fought,  in  defence  of  his  kindred  and  king, 

With  a  spirit  most  loving  and  loyal ; 
And  long  shall  the  Indian  warrior  sing 

The  deeds  of  Tecumseh,  the  royal. 

The  lightning  of  intellect  flashed  from  his  eye, 
In  his  arm  slept  the  force  of  the  thunder, 

But  the  bolt  passed  the  sjippliant  harmlessly  by. 
And  left  the  freed  captive  to  wonder. 


Above,  near  the  path  of  the  pilgrim,  he  sleeps, 
With  a  rudely-built  tumulous  o'er  him  ; 

And  the  bright-blossomed  Thames,  in  its  majesty, 
sweeps 
By  the  mound  where  his  followers  bore  him. 


n 


THE  ENGINEER'S  STORY. 

O,  children,  my  trips  are  over, 
The  engineer  needs  rest ; 
My  hand  is  shaky ;  I'm  feeling 
A  tugging  pain  i'  my  breast ; 
But  here,  as  the  twilight  gathers, 
I'll,  tell  you  a  tale  of  the  road. 
That'll  ring  in  my  head  forever. 
Till  it  rests  beneath  the  sod. 

We  were  lumbering  along  in  the  twilight. 
The  night  was  dropping  her  shade, 

And  the  "Gladiator"  labored- 
Climbing  the  top  of  the  grade ; 

The  train  was  heavily  laden. 
So  I  let  my  engine  rest. 

Climbing  the  grading  slowly, 
Till  we  reached  the  upland's  crest. 

I  held  my  watch  to  the  lamplight — 

Ten  minutes  behind  the  time  ! 
Lost  in  the  slackened  motion 

Of  the  up-grade's  heavy  climb  ; 
But  I  knew  the  miles  of  the  prairie 

That  stretched  a  level  track, 
So  I  touched  the  gauge  of  the  boiler, 

And  pulled  the  lever  back. 

Over  the  rails  a-gleaming, 

Thirty  an  hour,  or  so. 
The  engine  leaped  like  a  demon, 

Breathing  a  fiery  glow  ; 
But  to  me — ahold  of  the  lever — 

It  seemed  a  child  alway. 
Trustful  and  always  ready 

My  lightest  touch  to  obey. 

I  was  proud,  you  know,  of  my  engine, 

Holding  it  steady  that  night. 
And  my  eye  on  the  track  before  us, 

Ablaze  with  the  Drummond  light 
We  neared  a  well-known  cabin. 

Where  a  cliild  of  three  or  four, 
As  the  up  train  passed,  oft  called  me, 

A  playing  around  the  door. 

My  hand  was  firm  on  the  throttle 

As  we  swept  around  the  curve, 
When  something  afar  in  the  shadow, 

Struck  fire  through  every  nerve. 
I  sounded  the  brakes,  and  crashing 

The  reverse  lever  down  in  dismay, 
Groaning  to  Heaven — eighty  paces 

Ahead  was  the  child  at  its  play  ! 


HEROISM   AND   ADVENTURE. 


173 


One  instant— one,  awful  and  only, 

The  world  flew  round  in  my  brain, 
And  I  smote  my  hand  hard  on  my  forehead 

To  keep  back  the  terrible  pain  ; 
The  train  I  thought  flying  forever, 

With  mad  irresistible  roll, 
While  the  cries  of  the  dying,  the  night  wind 

Swept  into  my  shuddering  soul. 

Then  I  stood  on  the  front  of  the  engine- 
How  I  got  there  I  never  could  tell — 

My  feet  planted  down  on  the  crossbar, 
Where  the  cow-catcher  slopes  to  the  rail, 

One  hand  firmly  locked  on  the  coupler. 
And  one  held  out  in  the  night, 

While  my  eve  gauged  the  distance,  and  measured 
The  speed  of  our  slackening  flight. 

My  mind,  thank  the  Lord  !  it  was  steady  ; 

I  saw  the  curls  of  her  hair. 
And  the  face  that,  turning  in  wonder. 

Was  lit  by  the  deadly  glare. 
I  know  little  more— but  I  heard  it — 

The  groan  of  the  anguished  wheels. 
And  remember  thinking — the  engine 

In  agony  trembles  and  reels. 

One  ro^!.-$'o  the  day  of  my  dying 

I  shall  think  t'^e  old  engine  reared  back. 
And  as  it  recoiled,  with  a  shudder 

I  swept  my  hand  over  the  track  ; 
Then  darkness  fell  over  my  eyelids, 

But  I  heard  the  surge  of  the  train, 
And  the  poor  old  engine  creaking, 

As  racked  by  a  deadly  pain. 

They  found  us,  they  said,  on  the  gravel, 

My  fingers  enmeshed  in  her  hair, 
And  she  on  my  bosom  a-climbing. 

To  nestle  securely  there. 
We  are  not  much  given  to  crying — 

We  men  that  run  on  the  road— 
But  that  night,  they  said,  there  were  faces. 

With  tears  on  them,  lifted  to  God.  ' 

For  years  in  the  eve  and  the  morning 

As  I  neared  the  cabin  again. 
My  hand  on  the  lever  pressed  downward 

And  slackened  the  speed  of  the  train. 
When  my  engine  had  blown  her  a  greeting, 

She  always  would  come  to  the  door ; 
And  her  look  with  a  fullness  of  heaven 

Blesses  me  evermore. 


THE  MAIN  TRUCK,  OR  A  LEAP  FOR  LIFE. 


LD  Ironsides  at  anchor  lay, 
In  the  harbor  of  Mahon  ; 
A  dead  calm  rested  on  the  bay — 
The  waves  to  sleep  had  gone ; 


When  little  Hal,  the  captain's  son, 

A  lad  both  brave  and  good, 
In  sport,  up  shroud  and  rigging  ran, 

And  on  the  main  tioick  stood  ! 

A  shudder  shot  through  every  vein-- 

All  eyes  were  turned  on  high  ! 
There  stood  the  boy,  with  dizzy  brain. 

Between  the  sea  and  sky  ; 
No  hold  had  he  above,  below  ; 

Alone  he  stood  in  air  : 
To  that  far  height  none  dared  to  go — 

No  aid  could  reach  him  there. 

We  gazed,  but  nox  a  man  could  speak, 

With  horror  all  ^ghast — 
In  groups,  with  pallid  brow  and  cheek, 

We  watched  the  quivering  mast. 
The  atmosphere  grew  thick  and  hot, 

And  of  a  lurid  hue  ; — 
As  riveted  unto  the  spot, 

Stood  officers  and  crew. 

The  father  came  on  deck  : — he  gasped, 

"  Oh,  God ;  thy  will  be  done  ! " 
Then  suddenly  a  rifle  grasped, 
And  aimed  it  at  his  son. 
"  Jump,  far  out,  boy,  into  the  wave  ! 

Jump,  or  I  fire,"  he  said  ; 
"  That  only  chance  your  life  can  save  ; 
Jump,  jump,  boy  ! "     He  obeyed. 

He  sunk — he  rose — he  lived — he  moved — 

And  for  the  ship  struck  out. 
On  board  we  hailed  the  lad  beloved. 

With  many  a  manly  shout. 
His  father  drew,  in  silent  joy, 

Those  wet  arms  round  his  neck. 
And  folded  to  his  heart  his  boy — 

Then  fainted  on  the  deck. 

C.    C.    COLTON. 


U 


llJ' 


THE  FATE  OF  VIRGINIA. 

H Y  is  the  Forum  crowded  ?    What  means 
this  stir  in  Rome?  " 
"Claimed  as  a  slave,  a  free-born  maid  is 
dragged  here  from  her  home. 
On  fair  Virginia,  Claudius  has  cast  his  eye  of  blight ; 
The  tyrant's  creature,  Marcus,  asserts  an  owner's  right, 
Oh,  shame  on  Roman  manhood  !    Was  ever  plot  more 

clear? 
But  look  !  the  maiden's  father  comes !    Behold  Vir- 
ginius  here  ! " 

Straightway  Virginius  led  the  maid  a  little  space  aside. 
To  where  the  reeking  shambles  stood,  piled  up  with 

horn  and  hide. 
Hard  by,  a  butcher  on  a  block  had  laid  his  whittle 

down — 
Virginius  caught  the  whittle  up,  and  hid  it  in  his  gown. 


174 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


And  then  his  eyes  grew  very  dim,  and  liis  throat  began 
*to  swell, 

And  in  a  hoarse,  changed  voice  he  spake,  "  Farewell, 
sweet  child,  farewell ! 

The  house  that  was  the  happiest  within  the  Roman 
walls — 

The  house  that  envied  not  the  wealth  of  Capua's  mar- 
ble halls, 

Now,  for  the  brightness  of  thy  smile,  must  have  eternal 
gloom. 

And  for  the  music  of  thy  voice,  the  silence  of  the  tomb. 

"The  time  is  come.     The  tyrant  points  his  eager  hand 

this  way ; 
See  how  his  eyes  gloat  on  thy  grief,  like  a  kite's  upon 

tlie  prey ; 
With  all  his  wit  he  little  deems  that,  spurned,  be- 
trayed, bereft, 
Thy  father  hath,  in  his  despair,  one  fearful  refuge  left ; 
He  little  deems  that  in  this  hand,  I  clutch  what  .still 

can  save 
Thy  gentle  youth  from  taunts  and  blows,  the  portion  of 

the  slave ; 
Yea,  and  from  nameless  evil,  that  passeth  taunt  and 

blow — 
Foul  outrage,  which  thou  knowest  not — which  thou 

shalt  never  know. 
Then  clasp  me  round  the  neck  once  more,  and  give 

me  one  more  kiss  ; 
And  now,  mine  own  dear  little  girl,  there  is  no  way  but 

this ! " 
With  that,  he  lifted  high  the  steel,  and  smote  her  in  the 

side. 
And  in  her  blood  she  sank  to  earth,  and  with  one  sob 

she  died. 

Then,  for  a  little  moment,  all  people  held  their  breath  ; 
And  through  the  crowded  Forum  was  stillness  as  of 

death ; 
And  in  another  moment  break  forth  from  one  and  all 
A  cry  as  if  the  Volscians  were  coming  o'er  the  wall ; 
Till,  with  white  lips  and  bloodshot  eyes,  Virginius  tot- 
tered nigh, 
And  stood  before  the  judgment  seat,  and  held  the  knife 

on  high : 
"  O  dwellers  in  the  nether  gloom,  avengers  of  the  slain. 
By  this  dear  blood  I  cry  to  you,  do  right  between  us 

twain ; 
And  e'en  as  Appius  Claudius  hath  dealt  by  me  and 

mine, 
Deal  you  by  Appius  Claudius  and  all  the  Claudian 

line  ! " 
So  spake  the  slayer  of  his  child,  and  turned,  and  went 

his  way ; 
But  first  he  cast  one  haggard  glance  to  where  the  body 
*         lay, 
And  writiied,  and  groaned  a  fearful  gro;in,  and  then, 

with  steadfast  feet. 
Strode  right  across  the  market-place  unto  the  Sacred 

street. 


Then  up  sprang  Appius  Claudius  :  "  .Stop  him,  alive  or 

dead ! 
Ten  thousand  pounds  of  copper  to  tlie  man  who  brings 

his  head  ! " 
He  looked  upon  his  clients — but  none  would  work  his 

will ; 
He  looked  upon  his  lictors — but  thyy  trembled  a:id 

stood  still. 
And  as  Virginius  through  the  press  his  way  in  silence 

cleft, 
Ever  the  mighty  multitude  fell  back  to  right  and  left ; 
And  he  hath  passed  in  safety  unto  his  woful  home. 
And  there  taken  horse  to  tell  the  camp  what  deeds  are 

done  in  Rome. 

Lord  Macaulav. 


GOFFE,  THE  REGICIDE. 


N  the  course  of  Philip's  war,  which  involved  al- 
most all  the  Indian  tribes  in  New  England,  and 
among  others  those  in  the  neighborhood  of 
Hadley,  the  inhabitants  thought  it  proper  to  ob- 
serve the  ist  of  September,  1675,  as  a  day  of  fasting 
and  prayer.  While  they  were  in  the  church,  and 
employed  in  their  worship,  they  were  surprised  by  a 
band  of  savages.  The  people  instantly  betook  tht  m 
selves  to  their  arms, — which,  according  to  the  custom 
of  the  times,  they  had  carried  with  them  to  the  churcli, 
— and,  rushing  out  of  the  house,  attacked  their  in- 
vaders. The  panic  under  which  they  began  the  con 
flict  was,  however,  so  great,  and  their  number  was  so 
disproportioned  to  that  of  their  enemies,  that  they 
fought  doubtfully  at  first,  and  in  a  short  time  began 
evidently  to  give  way.  At  this  moment  an  ancient 
man,  with  hoary  locks,  of  a  most  venerable  and  dig- 
nified aspect,  and  in  a  dress  widely  differing  from 
that  of  the  inhabitants,  appeared  suddenly  at  their 
head,  and  with  a  firm  voice  and  an  example  of  un- 
daunted resolution,  reanimated  their  spirits,  led  them 
again  to  the  conflict,  and  totally  routed  the  savages. 
When  the  battle  was  ended,  the  stranger  disappeared  ; 
and  no  person  knew  whence  he  had  come,  or  whither 
he  had  gone.  The  relief  was  so  timely,  so  sudden,  so 
unexpected,  and  so  providential ;  the  appearance 
and  the  retreat  of  him  who  furnished  it  were  so  unac- 
countable ;  his  person  was  so  dignified  and  com- 
manding, his  resolution  so  superior,  and  his  inter- 
ferance  so  decisive,  that  the  inhabitants,  without  any 
uncommon  exercise  of  credulity,  readily  believed  him 
to  be  an  angel  sent  by  Heaven  for  their  preservation. 
Nor  was  this  opinion  seriously  controverted  until  it 
was  discovered,  several  years  afterward,  that  Goffe 
and  Whalley  had  been  lodged  in  the  house  of  Mr. 
Russell.  Then  it  was  known  that  their  deliverer  was 
Goffe,  Whalley  having  become  superannuated  some 
time  before  the  event  took  place. 

Timothy  Dwigiit. 


HEROISM   AND   ADVENTURE. 


175 


JOHNNY  BARTHOLOMEW. 

'HE  journals  this  morning  are  full  of  a  tale 
Of  a  terrible  ride  through  a  tunnel  by  rail ; 
And  people  are  called  on  to  note  and  ad- 
mire 
How  a  hundred  or  more,  through  the  smoke-c^oud 

and  fire, 
Were  borne  from  all  peril  to  limbs  and  to  lives — 
Mothers  saved  to  their    children,  and  husbands  to 

wives, 
But  of  him  who  performed  such  a  notable  deed 
Quite  little  the  journalist  gives  us  to  read. 
In  truth,  of  this  hero  so  plucky  and  bold, 
There  is  nothing  except,  in  few  syllables  told, 
His  name,  which  is  Johnny  Bartholomew. 

Away  in  Nevada — they  don't  tell  us  where. 
Nor  does  it  much  matter — a  railway  is  there, 
Which  winds  in  and  out  through  the  cloven  ravines. 
With  glimpses  at  times  of  the  wildest  of  scenes — 
Now  passing  a  bridge  seeming  fine  as  a  thread. 
Now  shooting  past  cliffs  that  impend  o'er  the  head, 
Now  plunging  some  black-throated  tunnel  within, 
Whose  darkness  is  roused  at  the  clatter  and  din  ; 
And  ran  every  day  with  its  train  o'er  the  road. 
An  engine  that  steadily  dragged  on  its  load, 
And  was  driven  by  Johnny  Bartholomew. 

With  throttle-valve  down,  he  was  slowing  the  train. 
While  the  sparks  fell  around  and   behind  him  like 

rain. 
As  he  came  to  a  spot  where  a  curve  to  the  right 
Brought  the  black,  yawning   mouth  of  a  tunnel  in 

sight, 
And  peering  ahead  with  a  far-seeing  ken, 
Felt  a  quick  sense  of  danger  come  over  him  then. 
Was  a  train  on  the  track  ?    No  I  A  peril  as  dire — 
The  further  extreme  of  the  tunnel  on  fire  I 
And  the  volume  of  smoke  as  it  gathered  and  rolled, 
Shook  fearful  dismay  from  each  dun-colored  fold, 
But  daunted  not  Johnny  Bartholomew. 

Beat  faster  his  heart,  though  its  current  stood  still. 
And  his  nerves  felt  a  jar  but  no  tremulous  thrill ; 
And  his  eyes  keenly  gleamed  through  their  partly 

closed  lashes, 
And  his  lips— not  with  fear— took  the  color  of  ashes. 
"  If  we  falter,  these  people  behind  us  are  dead  ! 
So  close  the  doors,  fireman— we'll  send  her  ahead  ! 
Crowd  on  the  steam  till  she  rattles  and  swings  ! 
Open  the  throttle-valve  !    Give  her  her  wings  !" 
Shouted  he  from  his  post  in  the  engineer's  room. 
Driving  onward  perchance  to  a  terrible  doom. 
This  man  they  call  Johnny  Bartholomew. 

Firm  grasping  the  bell-rope  and  holding  his  breath, 
On,  on  through  the  Vale  of  the  Shadow  of  Death, 
On,  on  through  that  horrible  cavern  of  hell, 
Through  flames  that  arose  and  through  timbers  that 
fell. 


Through  the  eddying  smoke  and  the  serpents  of  fire 
That  writhed  and  that  hissed  in  their  anguish'and 

ire. 
With  a  rush  and  a  roar  like  a  wild  tempest's  blast. 
To  the  free  air  beyond  them  in  safety  they  passed  ! 
While  the  clang  of  the  bell  and  the  steam  pipe's  shrill 

yell, 
Told  the  joy  at  escape  from  that  underground  hell, 
Of  the  man  they  called  Johnny  Bartholomew. 

Did  the  passengers  get  up  a  service  of  plate  ? 
Did  some  oily-tongued  orator  at  the  man  prate  ? 
Women  kiss  him  ?    Young  children  cling  fast  to  his 

knees  ? 
Stout  men  in  their  rapture  his  brown  fingers  squeeze  ? 
And  where  was  he  born  ?     Is  he  handsome  ?    Has  he 
A  wife  for  his  bosom,  a  child  for  his  knee  ? 
Is  he  young  ?    Is  he  old  ?     Is  he  tall  ?    Is  he  short  ? 
Well,  ladies,  the  journals  tell  naught  of  the  sort. 
And  all  that  they  give  us  about  him  today, 
After  telling  the  tale  in  a  commonplace  way. 
Is — the  man's  name  is  Johnny  Bartholomew. 

Thomas  Dunn  English. 

THE  FRENCH   ARMY  RETREATING  FROM 
MOSCOW. 


m 


AGNIFICENCE  of  ruin  !  what  has  time 
In  all  it  ever  gazed  upon  of  war, 


■^JL-^     Of  the  wild  rage  of  storm,  or  deadly  clime, 
Seen,  with  that  battle's  vengeance  to  com- 
pare? 
How  glorious  shone  the  invader's  pomp  afar  ! 
Like  pampered  lions  from  the  spoil  they  came  ; 
The  land  before  them  silence  and  despair, 
The  land  behind  them  massacre  and  flame  ; 
Blood  will  have  tenfold  blood.     What  are  they  now  ? 
A  name. 

Homeward  by  hundred  thousands,  column-deep, 
Broad  square,  loose  squadron,  rolling  like  the  flood. 
When  mighty  torrents  from  their  channels  leap. 
Rushed  through  the  land  the  haughty  multitude, 
Billow  on  endless  billow  ;  on  througli  wood. 
O'er  rugged  hill,  down  sunless,  marshy  vale. 
The  death-devoted  moved,  to  clangor  rude 
Of  drum  and  horn,  and  dissonant  clash  of  mail. 
Glancing  disastrous  light  before  that  sunbeam  pale. 

Again  they  reached  thee,  Borodino  !  still 
Upon  the  loaded  soil  the  carnage  lay. 
The  human  harvest,  now  stark,  stiff,  and  chill, 
Friend,  foe,  stretched  thick  together,  clay  to  clay  ; 
In  vain  the  startled  legions  burst  away  ; 
The  land  was  all  one  naked  sepulchre ; 
The  shrinking  eye  still  glanced  on  grim  decay,         , 
Still  did  the  hoof  and  wheel  their  passage  tear, 
Through  cloven  helms  and  arms,  and  corpses  mould 
ering  drear. 

George  Crolv. 


176 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


JIM  BLUDSO. 

'ALL,  no  !  I  can't  tell  where  he  lives, 
Because  he  don't  live,  you  see  : 
Leastways,  he's  got  out  of  the  habit 
Of  livin'  like  you  and  me. 
Whar  have  you  been  for  the  last  three  years 

That  you  haven't  heard  folks  tell 
How  Jimmy  Bludso  passed  in  his  checks, 
The  night  of  the  "  Prairie  Belle?  " 

He  warn't  no  saint — them  engineers 

Is  all  pretty  much  alike — 
One  wife  of  Natchez-under  the-Hill, 

And  another  one  here,  in  Pike. 
A  careless  man  in  his  talk  was  Jim, 

And  an  awkward  man  in  a  row — 
But  he  never  pinked,  and  he  never  lied, 

I  reckon  he  never  knowed  how. 

And  this  was  all  the  religion  he  had — 

To  treat  his  engine  well  ; 
Never  be  passed  on  the  rivtr  ; 

To  mind  the  pilot's  bell ; 
And  if  ever  the  "  Prairie  Bell  "  took  fire, 

A  thousand  times  he  swore 
He'd  hold  her  nozzle  agin  the  bank 

Till  the  last  soul  got  ashore. 

All  boats  has  their  day  on  the  Mississip', 

And  her  day  came  at  last — 
The  "Movastar"  was  a  better  boat, 

But  the  "  Belle,"  she  wouldn't  be  passed, 
And  so  came  tarin'  along  that  night, 

The  oldest  craft  on  the  line. 
With  a  nigger  squat  on  her  safety-valve. 

And  her  furnaces  crammed,  rosin  and  pine. 

The  fire  bust  out  as  she  cleared  the  bar, 

And  burnt  a  hole  in  the  night. 
And  quick  as  a  flash  she  turned,  and  made 

For  that  willer-bank  on  the  right. 
There  was  runnin'  and  cursin',  but  Jim  yelled  out 

Over  all  the  infernal  roar, 
"I'll  hold  her  nozzle  agin  the  bank 

Till  the  last  galoot's  ashore  ! " 

Thro'  the  hot,  black  breath  of  the  burning  boat 

Jim  Bludso's  voice  was  heard. 
And  they  all  had  trust  in  his  cussedness, 

And  knowed  he  would  keep  his  word. 
And  sure's  you're  born,  they  all  got  off 

Afore  the  smoke-stacks  fell. 
And  Bludso's  ghost  went  up  alone 

In  the  smoke  of  the  "  Prairie  Belle." 

He  warn't  no  saint — but  at  judgment 

I'd  run  my  chance  with  Jim 
'Longside  of  some  pious  gentlemen 

That  wouldn't  shook  hands  with  him. 


He'd  seen  his  duty  a  dead  sure  thing, 
And  went  for  it  thar  and  then  ; 

And  Christ  ain't  a-going  to  be  too  hard 
On  a  man  that  died  for  men. 


John  Kay. 


RAMON. 


RUNK  and  senseless  in  his  place, 

Prone  and  sprawling  on  his  face 
More  like  brute  than  any  man 

Alive  or  dead — 
By  his  great  pump  out  of  gear. 
Lay  the  peon  engineer. 
Waking  only  just  to  hear. 

Overhead, 
Angry  tones  that  called  his  name, 
Oaths  and  cries  of  bitter  blame — 
Woke  to  hear  all  this,  and  waking,  turned  and  fled  ! 

"To  the  man  who'll  bring  to  me," 
Cried  Intendant  Harry  Lee — 
Harry  Lee,  the  English  foreman  of  the  mine — 
"  Bring  the  sot  alive  or  dead, 
I  will  give  to  him,"  he  said, 
"  Fifteen  hundred /^.yo^y  down. 
Just  to  set  the  rascal's  crown 
Underneath  this  heel  of  mine  : 
Since  but  death 
Deserves  the  man  whose  deed, 
Be  it  vice  or  want  of  heed. 
Stops  the  pumps  that  give  us  breath — 
Stops  the  pumps  that  suck  the  death 
From  the  poisoned  lower  levels  of  the  mine !" 

No  one  answered,  for  a  cry 
From  the  shaft  rose  up  on  high  ; 
And  shuffling,  scrambling,  tumbling  from  below 
Came  the  miners  each,  the  bolder 
Mounting  on  the  weaker's  shoulder, 
Grappling,  clinging  to  their  hold  or 

Letting  go. 
As  the  weaker  gasped  and  fell 
From  the  ladder  to  the  well — 
To  the  poisoned  pit  of  hell 

Down  below ! 

"  To  the  man  who  sets  them  free," 

Cried  the  foreman,  Harry  Lee — 
Harry  Lee,  the  English  foreman  of  the  mine — 
"  Brings  them  out  and  sets  them  free, 

I  will  give  that  man,"  said  he, 
"  Twice  that  sum,  who  with  a  rope 

Face  to  face  with  death  shall  cope. 

Let  him  come  who  dares  to  hope  ! " 
"  Hold  your  peace  ! "  some  one  replied. 

Standing  by  the  foreman's  side  ; 
"There  has  one  already  gone,  whoe'er  he  be  !" 

Then  they  held  their  breath  with  awe, 
Pulling  on  the  rope,  and  saw 


HEROISM   AND   ADVENTURii, 


177 


Fainting  figures  re-appear, 

On  the  black  rope  swinging  clear, 

Fastened  by  some  skilful  hand  from  below ; 
Till  a  score  the  level  gained, 
And  but  one  alone  remained — 
He  the  hero  and  the  last. 
He  whose  skilful  hand  made  fast 

The  long  line  that  brought  them  back  to  hope  and 
cheer ! 

Haggard,  gasping,  down  dropped  he 
At  the  feet  of  Harry  Lee — 
Harry  Lee,  the  English  foreman  of  the  mine  ; 
"  I  have  come, "  he  gasped,  "  to  claim 
Both  rewards.     SeSor,  my  name 

Is  Ramon  ! 
I'm  the  drunken  engineer — 
I'm  the  coward,  Sefior— "     Here 
He  fell  over,  by  that  sign 
Dead  as  stone ! 

Bret  Harte. 


DEATH  OF  GAUDENTIS. 

The  following  inscription  was  found  in  the  Catacombs  upon  the 
tomb  of  the  Architect  of  the  Coliseum : 

Thus  thou  keepest  thy  promises,  O  Vespasian  I  the  rewarding 
with  death  of  him,  the  crown  of  thy  glory  in  Rome.  Do  rejoice, 
O  Gaudentisl  the  cruel  tyrant  promised  much,  but  Christ  gave 
thee  all,  who  prepared  thee  such  a  mansion. 

|EFORE  Vespasian's  regal  throne 
Skilful  Gaudentis  stood ; 
"  Build  me,"  the  haughty  monarch  cried, 
"  A  theatre  for  blood. 
I  know  thou'rt  skilled  in  mason's  work, 

Thine  is  the  power  to  frame 
Rome's  Coliseum  vast  and  wide, 
An  honor  to  thy  name. 

"Over  seven  acres  spread  thy  work, 

And  by  the  gods  of  Rome, 
Thou  shalt  hereafter  by  my  side 

Have  thy  resplendent  home. 
A  citizen  of  Roman  rights. 

Sliver  and  golden  store. 
These  shall  be  thine  ;  let  Christian  blood 

But  stain  the  marble  floor." 

So  rose  the  Amphitheatre, 

Tower  and  arch  and  tier ; 
There  dawned  a  day  when  martyrs  stood 

Within  that  ring  of  fear. 
But  strong  their  quenchless  trust  in  God, 

And  strong  their  human  love, 
Their  eyes  of  faith,  undimmed,  were  fixed 

On  temples  far  above. 

And  thousands  grazed,  in  brutal  joy. 

To  watch  those  Christians  die — • 
But  one  beside  Vespasian  leaned, 

With  a  strange  light  in  his  eye. 
(12) 


What  thoughts  welled  up  within  his  breast, 

As  on  that  group  he  gazed. 
What  gleams  of  holy  light  from  heaven. 

Upon  his  dark  soul  blazed  ! 

Had  he  by  password  gained  access 

To  the  dark  Catacomb, 
And  learned  the  hope  of  Christ's  beloved, 

Beyond  the  rack,  the  tomb  ? 
The  proud  Vespasian  o'er  him  bends, 

"  My  priceless  architect. 
To-day  I  will  announce  to  all 

Thy  privilege  elect — 

A  free-made  citizen  of  Rome." 

Calmly  Gaudentis  rose. 
And  folding,  o'er  his  breast,  his  arms. 

Turned  to  the  Saviour's  foes  ; 
And  in  a  strength  not  all  his  own, 

With  life  and  death  in  view. 
The  fearless  architect  exclaimed, 

"I  am  a  Christian  too." 

Only  a  few  brief  moments  passed. 

And  brave  Gaudentis  lay 
Within  the  Amphitheatre, 

A  lifeless  mass  of  clay. 
Vespasian  promised  him  the  rights 

Of  proud  Imperial  Rome  ; 
But  Christ  with  martyrs  crowned  him  king. 

Beneath  heaven's  cloudless  dome. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  IVRY. 

OW  glory  to  the  Lord  of  Hosts,  from  whom  all 
glories  are  1 
And  glory   to  our   Sovereign    Liege,    King 
Henry  of  Navarre ! 
t  Now  let  there  be  the  merry  sound  of  music  and  the 

dance, 
Through  thy  corn-fields  green,  and  sunny  vales,   O 
I         pleasant  land  of  France  ! 
And  thou,  Rochelle,  our  own  Rochelle,  proud  city  of 

the  waters, 
Again  let  rapture  light  the  eyes  of  all  thy  mourning 

daughters ; 
As  thou  wert  constant  in  our  ills,  be  joyous  in  our  joy. 
For  cold  and  stiff  and  still  are  they  who  wrought  thy 
walls  annoy. 

Hurrah  !  hurrah  !  a  single  field  hath  turned  the  chance 
of  war. 

Hurrah  !  hurrah !  for  Ivry  and  King  Henry  of  Na- 
varre! 

Oh,  how  our  hearts  were  beating,  when,  at  the  dawn  oJ 
day. 

We  saw  the  army  of  the  League  drawn  out  in  long  ar- 
ray ; 

With  all  its  priest-led  citizens,  and  all  its  rebel  peers, 

And  Appenzel's  stout  infantry,  and  Egmont's  Flemish 
spears! 


178 


CROWN  jp:wels. 


There  rode  the  brood  of  false  Lorraine,  the  curses  of  our 
land ! 

And  dark  Mayenne  was  in  the  midst,  a  truncheon  in 
his  hand  ; 

And,  as  we  looked  on  them,  we  thought  of  Seine's  em- 
purpled flood, 

And  good  Coligni's  hoary  hair  all  dabbled  with  his 
blood ; 

And  we  cried  unto  the  living  God,  who  rules  the  fate 
of  war, 

To  fight  for  his  own  holy  name,  and  Henry  of  Navarre. 

The  King  has  come  to  marshal  us,  in  all  his  armor 
drest, 

And  he  has  bound  a  snow-white  plume  upon  his  gal- 
lant crest. 

He  looked  upon  his  people,  and  a  tear  was  in  his  eye  ; 

He  looked  upon  the  traitors,  and  his  glance  was  stern 
and  high. 

Right  graciously,  he  smiled  on  us,  as  rolled  from  wing 
to  wing, 

Down  all  our  line,  in  deafening  shout,  "  God  save  our 
lord,  the  King  !  " 

"And  if  my  standard-bearer  fall— as  fall  full  well  he 
may. 

For  never  saw  I  promise  yet  of  such  a  bloody  fray — 

Press  where  ye  see  my  white  plume  .shine,  amid  the 
ranks  of  war. 

And  be  your  oriflamme,  to-day,  the  helmet  of  Na- 
varre." 

Hurrah  !  the  foes  are  moving  !  Hark  to  the  mingled 
din 

Of  fife,  and  steed,  and  trump,  and  drum,  and  roaring 
culverin ! 

The  fiery  Duke  is  pricking  fast  across  St  Andre's  plain, 

With  all  the  hireling  chivairy  of  Guelders  and  Al- 
mayne. 

Now,  by  the  lips  of  those  ye  love,  fair  gentlemen  of 
France, 

Charge  for  the  golden  lilies  now — upon  them  with  the 
lance  ! 

A  thousand  spurs  are  striking  deep,  a  thousand  spears 
in  rest, 

A  thousand  knights  are  pressing  close  behind  the  snow- 
white  crest. 

And  in  they  burst,  and  on  they  rushed,  while,  like  a 
guiding  star, 

Amidst  the  thickest  carnage  blazed  the  helmet  of  Na- 
varre. 

Now,  God  be  praised,  the  day  is  ours  !  Mayenne  hath 
turned  his  rein, 

D'Aumale  hath  cried  for  quarter — the  Flemish  Count 
is  slain ; 

Their  ranks  are  breaking  like  thin  clouds  before  a  Bis- 
cay gale  ; 

The  field  is  heaped  with  bleeding  steeds,  and  flags,  and 
cloven  mail. 


And  then  we  thought  on  vengence,  and  all  along  our 
van, 

"  Remember  St.  Bartholomew  !  "  was  passed  from  man 
to  man ; 

But  out  spake  gentle  Henry,  then—"  No  Frenchman  is 
my  foe ; 

Down,  down  with  everj'  foreigner !  but  let  your  breth- 
ren go." 

Oh,  was  there  ever  such  a  knight,  in  friendship  or  in 
war, 

As  our  sovereign  lord,  King  Henry,  the  soldier  of  Na- 
varre  ? 

Ho  !  maidens  of  Vienna  !    Ho !  matrons  of  Lucerne  ! 
Weep,  weep  and  rend  your  hair  for  those  who  never 

shall  return ! 
Ho  !  Philip,  send  for  charity  thy  Mexican  pistoles. 
That  Antwerp  monks  may  sing  a  mass  for  thy  poor 

spearmens'  souls. 
Ho!   gallant  nobles  of  the  League,   look  thet  your 

arms  be  bright ! 
Ho  !  burghers  of  St.  Genevieve,  keep  watch  and  ward 

to-night ; 
For  our  God  hath  crushed  the  tyrant,  our  God  hath 

raised  the  slave, 
And  mocked  the  counsel  of  the  wise  and  the  valor  of 

the  brave. 
Then  glory  to  His  holy  name,  from  whom  all  glories  are ! 
And  glory  to  our  sovereign  lord,   King  Henry  of  Na- 
varre ! 

Lord  Macaulay. 


©' 


THE  DRAW-BRIDGE  KEEPER. 

History  and  poetry  celebrate  no  sublimer  act  of  devotion  than 
that  of  Albert  G.  Drecker,  the  watchman  of  the  Passaic  Rivev 
draw-bridge,  on  the  New  York  and  Newark  Railroad.  The  train 
was  due,  and  he  was  closing  the  draw  when  his  little  child  fell 
into  the  deep  water.  It  would  have  been  easy  enough  to  rescue 
him,  if  the  father  could  have  taken  the  time,  but  already  the 
thundering  train  was  at  hand.  It  was  a  cruel  agony.  His  child 
could  be  saved  only  at  the  cost  of  other  lives  com'ritted  to  his 
care.  The  brave  man  did  his  duty,  but  the  child  was  drowned. 
The  pass  at  Thermopylae  was  not  more  heroically  kept. 

RECKER,    the  draw-bridge  keeper   opened 
wide 
The  dangerous    gate    to    let   the   vessel 
through ; 
His  little  son  was  standing  by  his  side. 
Above  Passaic  river,  deep  and  blue  ; 
While  in  the  distance,  like  a  moan  of  pain. 
Was  heard  the  whistle  of  the  coming  train. 

At  once  brave  Drecker  worked  to  swing  it  back — 
The  gate-like  bridge,  that  seems  a  gate  of  death  ; 

Nearer  and  nearer,  on  the  slender  track, 
Came  the  swift  engine,  puffing  its  white  breath. 

Then,  with  a  shriek,  the  loving  father  saw 

His  darling  boy  fall  headlong  from  the  draw. 

Either  at  once  down  in  the  stream  to  spring 
And  save  his  son,  and  let  the  living  freight 


HEROISM  AND  ADVENTURE. 


179 


Rush  on  to  death,  or  to  his  work  to  cling, 

And  leave  his  boy  unhelped  to  meet  his  fate  ; 
Which  should  he  do  ?    Were  you,  as  he  was  tried, 
Would  not  your  love  outweight  all  else  beside? 

And  yet  the  child  to  him  was  full  as  dear 
As  yours  may  be  to  you — the  light  of  eyes, 

A  presence  like  a  brighter  atmosphere, 
The  household  star  that  shone  in  love's  mildskies- 

Yet  side  by  side  with  duty,  stern  and  grim, 

Even  his  child  became  as  nought  to  him. 

For  Drecker,  being  great  of  soul,  and  true, 
Held  to  his  work,  and  did  not  aid  his  boy. 

Who  in  the  deep,  dark  water  sank  from  view. 
Then  from  the  father's  life  went  forth  all  joy  ; 

Tut,  as  he  fell  back,  pallid  with  his  pain. 

Across  the  bridge,  in  safety,  passed  the  train. 

And  yet  the  man  was  poor,  and  in  his  breast 
Flowed  no  ancestral  blood  of  king  or  lord  ; 

True  greatness  needs  no  title  and  no  crest 
To  win  from  men  just  honor  and  reward  ; 

Nobility  is  not  of  rank,  but  mind — 

And  ii  inborn,  and  common  in  our  kind. 

He  is  most  noble  whose  humanity 
Is  least  corrupted.     To  be  just  and  good 

The  birthright  of  the  lowest  born  may  be  ; 
Say  what  we  can,  we  are  one  brotherhood, 

And  rich,  or  poor,  or  famous  or  unknown. 

True  hearts  are  noble,  and  true  hearts  alone. 

Henry  Abbe  v. 


ON  BOARD  THE  CUMBERLAND, 
MARCH,  7,  1862. 


U 


'TAND  to  your  guns,  men  !  "  Morris  cried  ; 
Small  need  to  pass  the  word  ; 
Our  men  at  quarters  ranged  themselves 
Before  the  drum  was  heard. 


And  then  began  the  sailors'  jests : 
"  What  thing  is  that,  I  say?  " 
"A  'long-shore  meeting-house  adrift 
A  standing  down  the  bay  ?  " 

"  So  shot  your  guns  and  point  them  straight ; 
Before  this  day  goes  by, 
W^e'U  try  of  what  her  metal's  made." 
A  cheer  was  our  reply. 

"  Remember,  boys,  this  flag  of  ours 
Has  seldom  left  its  place  ; 
And  where  it  falls,  the  deck  it  strikes 
Is  covered  with  disgrace. 

"  I  ask  but  this ;  or  sink  or  swim, 
Or  live  or  nobly  die, 


My  last  sight  upon  earth  may  be 
To  see  that  ensign  fly  !  " 

Meanwhile  the  shapeless  iron  mass 

Came  moving  o'er  the  wave. 
As  gloomy  as  a  passing  hearse, 

As  silent  as  the  grave. 

Her  ports  were  closed  ;  from  stem  to  stern 

No  sign  of  life  appeared  : 
We  wondered,  questioned,  strained  our  eyes, 

Joked — every  thing,  but  feared. 

She  reached  our  range.     Our  broadside  rang  ; 

Our  heavy  pivots  roared  ; 
And  shot  and  shell,  a  fire  of  hell. 

Against  her  side  we  poured. 

Gods  mercy  !  from  her  sloping  roof 

The  iron  tempest  glanced, 
As  hail  bounds  from  a  cottage-thatch, 

And  round  her  leaped  and  danced  ; 

Or  when  against  her  dusky  hull 

We  struck  a  fair,  full  blow. 
The  mighty,  solid  iron  globes 

Were  crumbled  up  like  snow. 

On,  on,  with  fast  increasing  speed. 

The  silent  monster  came. 
Though  all  our  starboard  battery 

Was  one  long  line  of  flame. 

She  heeded  not ;  no  guns  she  fired  ; 

Straight  on  our  bows  she  bore  ; 
Through  riving  plank  and  crashing  frame 

Her  furious  way  she  tore. 

Alas  !  our  beautiful,  keen  bow. 

That  in  the  fiercest  blast 
So  gently  folded  back  the  seas, 

They  hardly  felt  we  passed. 

Alas  !  alas !  my  Cumberland, 

That  ne'er  knew  grief  before, 
To  be  so  gored,  to  feel  so  deep 

The  tusk  of  that  sea-boar  ! 

Once  more  she  backward  d^-ew  apace  ; 

Once  more  our  side  she  re  it. 
Then,  in  the  wantonness  C)f  hate. 

Her  broadside  through  us  sent. 

The  dead  and  dying  round  us  lay, 

But  our  foemen  lay  abeam  ; 
Her  open  port-holes  maddened  us, 

We  fired  with  shout  and  scream. 

We  felt  our  vessel  settling  fast  ; 
We  knew  our  time  was  brief: 
"  Ho  !  man  the  pumps  !  "     But  they  who  worked 
And  fought  not,  wept  witli  grief. 


180 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


From  captain  down  to  powder-boy, 

No  hand  was  idle  then  : 
Two  soldiers,  but  by  chance  aboard, 
Fought  on  like  sailor  men. 

And  when  a  gun's  crew  lost  a  hand, 

Some  bold  marine  stepped  out, 
And  jerked  his  braided  jacket  off. 

And  hauled  the  gun  about 

Our  forward  magazine  was  drowned, 

And  up  from  the  sick-bay 
Crawled  out  the  wounded,  red  with  biqod. 

And  round  us  gasping  lay  ; — 

Yes,  cheering,  cal'ing  us  by  name, 

Struggling  with  failing  breath 
To  keep  their  shipmates  at  the  post 

Where  glory  strove  with  death. 

With  decks  afloat  and  powder  gone, 

The  last  broadside  we  gave 
From  the  guns'  heated  iron  lips 

Burst  out  beneath  the  wave. 

So  sponges,  rammers,  and  handspikes — 

As  men-of-war's  men  should — 
We  placed  within  their  proper  racks. 

And  at  our  quarters  stood. 

"  Up  to  the  spar  deck  !  save  yourselves  ! " 
Cried  Selfridge.     "  Up,  my  men  ! 
God  grant  that  some  of  us  may  live 
To  fight  yon  ship  again  ! " 

We  turned  :  we  did  not  like  to  go  ; 

Yet  staying  seemed  but  vain. 
Knee-deep  in  water  ;  so  we  left ; 
Some  swore,  some  groaned  with  pain. 

We  reached  the  deck.    There  Randall  stood  : 

"Another  turn,  men — so  ! " 
Calmly  he  aimed  his  pivot  gun  : 

"  Now,  Tenny,  let  her  go  ! " 

It  did  our  sore  hearts  good  to  hear 

The  song  our  pivot  sang, 
As  rushing  on  from  wave  to  wave 

The  whirring  bomb-shell  sprang. 

Brave  Randall  leaped  upon  the  gun. 
And  waved  his  cap  in  sport ; 
"  Well  done  !  well  aimed  !  I  saw  that  shell 
Go  through  nn  open  port ! " 

It  was  our  last,  our  deadliest  shot ; 

The  deck  was  overflown  ; 
The  poor  ship  staggered,  lurched  to  port. 

And  gave  a  living  groan. 

Down,  down,  as  headlong  through  the  waves 
Our  gallant  vessel  rushed  ; 


A  thousand  gurgling  watery  sounds 
Around  my  senses  gushed. 

Then  I  remember  little  more  ; 

One  look  to  heaven  I  gave, 
Where,  like  an  angel's  wing,  I  saw 

Our  spotless  ensign  wave. 

I  tried  to  cheer.     I  cannot  say 

Whether  I  swam  or  sank  ; 
A  blue  mist  closed  around  my  eyes, 

And  everything  was  blank. 

When  I  awoke,  a  soldier  lad, 

All  dripping  from  the  sea. 
With  two  great  tears  upon  his  cheeks. 

Was  bending  over  me. 

I  tried  to  speak.     He  understood 

The  wish  I  could  not  speak. 
He  turned  me.     There,  thank  God  !  the  flag 

Still  fluttered  at  the  peak  ! 

And  there,  while  thread  shall  hang  to  thread, 

Oh,  let  that  ensign  fly  ! 
The  noblest  constellation  set 

Against  the  northern  sky — 

A  sign  that  we  who  live  may  claim 

The  peerage  of  the  brave  ; 
A  monument  that  needs  no  scroll, 

For  those  beneath  the  wave. 

George  H.  Boker. 


COLUMBUS    FIRST     DISCOVERS 
THE  NEW  WORLD. 


LAND     IN 


HE  breeze  had  been  fresh  all  day,  with  more 
sea  than  usual,  and  they  had  madegreat  pro- 
gress. At  sunset  they  had  stood  again  to  the 
y  west,  and  were  ploughing  the  waves  at  a 
rapid  rate,  the  Pinta  keeping  the  head,  from  her  su- 
perior sailing.  The  greatest  animation  prevailed 
throughout  the  ships :  not  an  eye  was  closed  that 
night.  As  the  evening  darkened,  Columbus  took  his 
station  on  the  top  of  the  castle  or  cabin  on  a  high 
poop  of  his  vessel,  ranging  his  eye  along  the  dusky 
horizon,  and  maintaining  an  intense  and  unremitting 
watch.  About  ten  o'clock,  he  thought  he  beheld  a 
light  glimmering  at  a  great  distance.  Fearing  his 
eager  hopes  might  deceive  him,  he  called  to  Pedro 
Gutierrez,  gentleman  of  the  king's  bedchamber,  and 
inquired  whether  he  saw  such  a  light ;  the  latter  re- 
plied in  the  afiirmative.  Doubtful  whether  it  might 
not  yet  be  some  delusion  of  the  fancy,  Columbus 
called  Rodrigo  Sanchez,  of  Segovia,  and  made  the 
same  inquiry.  By  the  time  the  latter  had  ascended 
the  round-house,  the  light  had  disappeared.  They 
saw  it  once  or  twice  afterwards  in  sudden  and  passing 


HEROISM   AND   ADVENTURE. 


ISl 


et^nms,  as  if  it  were  a  touch  in  the  bark  of  a  fisher- 
man, rising  and  sinking  with  the  waves,  or  in  the 
hand  of  some  person  on  shore,  borne  up  and  down  as 
he  walked  from  house  to  house.  So  transient  and 
uncertain  were  these  gleams,  that  few  attached  any 
importance  to  them  ;  Columbus,  however,  considered 
them  as  certain  signs  of  land,  and,  moreover,  that  the 
land  was  inhabited. 

They  continued  their  course  until  in  the  morning, 
when  a  gun  from  the  Pinta  gave  the  joyful  signal  of 
land.  It  was  first  descried  by  a  mariner  named  Ro- 
drigo  de  Triana  ;  but  the  reward  was  afterwards  ad- 
judged to  the  admiral  forhaving  previously  perceived 
the  light.  The  land  was  now  clearly  seen  about  two 
leagues  distant  ;  whereupon  they  took  in  sail,  and 
lay  to,  waiting  impatiently  for  the  dawn. 

The  thoughts  and  feelings  of  Columbus  in  this  little 
space  of  time  must  have  been  tumultuous  and  in- 
tense. At  length,  in  spite  of  every  difficulty  and 
danger,  he  had  accomplished  his  object.  The  great 
mystery  of  the  ocean  was  revealed  ;  his  theory,  which 
had  been  the  scoff  of  sages,  was  triumphantly  estab- 
lished ;  he  had  secured  to  himself  a  glory  durable  as 
the  world  itself. 

It  is  difficult  to  conceive  the  feelings  of  such  a  man 
at  such  a  moment,  or  the  conjectures  which  must 
have  thronged  upon  his  mind,  as  to  the  land  before 
him,  covered  with  darkness.  That  it  was  fruitful  was 
evident  from  the  vegetables  which  floated  from  its 
shores.  He  thought,  too,  that  he  perceived  the  fra- 
grance of  aromatic  groves.  The  moving  light  he 
had  beheld  proved  it  the  residence  of  man.  But 
what  were  its  inhabitants  ?  Were  they  like  those  of 
the  other  parts  of  the  globe ;  or  were  they  seme 
strange  and  monstrous  race,  such  as  the  im- 
agination was  prone  in  those  times  to  give  to  all  re- 
mote and  unknown  regions  ?  Had  he  come  upon 
some  wild  island  far  in  the  Indian  Sea  ;  or  was  this 
the  famed  Cipango  itself,  the  object  of  his  golden 
fancies?  A  thousand  speculations  of  the  kind  must 
have  swarmed  upon  him,  as,  with  his  anxious  crews, 
he  waited  for  the  night  to  pass  away,  wondering 
whether  the  morning  light  would  reveal  a  savage  wil- 
derness, or  dawn  upon  spicy  groves,  and  glittering 
fanes,  and  gilded  cities,  and  all  the  j  plendor  of  orien- 
tal civilization. 

Washington  Irving. 


Yea,  trust  the  guiding  God,  and  go  along  the  float- 
ing graves  ; 

Though  hid  till  now,  yet  now  behold  the  new  world 
o'er  the  seas  ! 

With  genius,  nature  stands  in  solemn  union  still, 

And  ever  what  the  one  foretells,  the  other  shall  ful- 
fill. 

Frederic  Schiller. 


THE  GREAT   DISCOVERY. 

'  TEER  on,  bold  sailor  ;  wit  may  mock  thy  soul 
that  sees  the  land, 
And  hopeless,  at  the  helm,  may  droop   the 
weak  and  weary  hand  ; 
Yet  ever,  ever  to  the  west,  for  there  the  coast  must 

lie. 
And  dim  it  dawns,  and  glimmery  dawns,  before  thy 
reason's  eye  ; 


■    SHERIDAN'S  RIDE. 

P  from  the  South  at  break  of  day. 
Bringing  to  Winchester  fresh  dismay, 
The  affrighted  air  with  a  shudder  bore, 
Like  a  herald  in  haste,  to  the  chieftain's  door, 

The  terrible  grumble,  and  rumble,  and  roar, 

Telling  the  battle  was  on  once  more, 

And  Sheridan  twenty  miles  away. 

And  wider  still  those  billows  of  war 
Thundered  along  the  horizon's  bar  ; 
And  louder  yet  into  Winchester  rolled 
The  roar  of  that  red  .sea  uncontrolled, 
Making  the  blood  of  the  listener  cold. 
As  he  thought  of  the  stake  in  that  fiery  fray. 
And  Sheridan  twenty  miles  away. 

But  there  is  a  road  from  Winchester  town, 

A  good,  broad  highway  leading  down  ; 

And  there  through  the  flush  of  the  morning  light, 

A  steed  as  black  as  the  steeds  of  night. 

Was  seen  to  pass,  as  with  eagle  flight. 

As  if  he  knew  the  terrible  need. 

He  stretched  away  with  his  utmost  speed  ; 

Hills  rose  and  fell ;  but  his  heart  was  gay, 

With  Sheridan  fifteen  miles  away. 

Still  sprung  from  those  swift  hoofs,  thundering  south. 
The  dust,  like  smoke  from  the  cannon's  mouth  ; 
Or  the  trail  of  a  comet,  sweeping  faster  and  faster, 
Foreboding  to  traitors  the  doom  of  disaster. 
The  heart  of  the  steed,  and  the  heart  of  the  master 
Were  beating  like  prisoners  assaulting  their  walls, 
Impatient  to  be  where  the  battle-field  calls  ; 
Every  nerve  of  the  charger  was  strained  to  full  play, 
With  Sheridan  only  ten  miles  away. 

Under  his  spuming  feet,  the  road 

Like  an  arrowy  Alpine  river  flowed. 

And  the  landscape  sped  away  behind 

Like  an  ocean  flying  before  the  wind, 

And  the  steed,  like  a  bark  fed  with  furnace  ire, 

Swept  on,  with  his  wild  eye  full  of  fire. 

But  lo  !  he  is  nearing  his  heart's  desire ; 

He  is  snuffing  the  smoke  of  the  roaring  fray. 

With  Sheridan  only  five  miles  away. 

The  first  that  the  General  saw  were  the  groups 
Of  stragglers,  and  then  the  retreating  troops  ; 
What  was  done — what  to  do — a  glance  told  him  both, 
And  striking  his  spurs,  with  a  terrible  oath, 


182 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


He  dashed  down  the  line,  'mid  a  storm  of  huzzis, 
And  the  wave  of  retreat  checked  its  course  there,  be- 
cause 
The  sight  of  the  master  compelled  it  to  pause. 
With  foam  and  with  dust  the  black  charger  was  gray  ; 
By  the  flash  of  his  eye,  and  his  red  nostril  s  play, 
He  seemed  to  the  whole  great  army  to  saj', 
"  I  have  brought  you  Sheridan  all  the  way 
From  Winchester  down,  to  save  the  day." 

Hurrah,  hurrah  for  Sheridan  ! 
Hurrah,  hurrah  for  horse  and  man  ! 
And  when  their  statues  are  placed  on  high, 
Under  the  dome  of  the  Union  sky — 
The  American  soldiers'  Temple  of  Fame, 
There  with  the  glorious  General's  name. 
Be  it  said  in  letters  both  bold  and  bright : 
"Here  is  the  steed  that  saved  the  day 
By  carrying  Sheridan  into  the  fight, 
From  Winchester — twenty  miles  away  !  " 

Thomas  Buchanan  Read 


NORVAL 

Y  name  is  Norval :  on  the  Grampian  hill 
My  father  feeds  his  flocks    a  frugal  swain, 
Whose  constant  care  was  to  increase   his 
store, 
And  keep  his  only  son,  myself,  at  home. 
For  I  had  heard  of  battles,  and  I  longed 
To  follow  to  the  field  some  warlike  lord  : 
And  Pleaven  soon  granted  what  my  sire  denied. 
This  moon  which  rose  last  night,  round  as  my  shield, 
Had  not  yet  filled  her  horns,  when,  by  her  light 
A  band  of  fierce  barbarians,  from  the  hills, 
Rushed  like  a  torrent  down  upon  the  vale, 
Sweeping  our  flocks  and  herds.    The  shepherds  fled 
For  safety  and  for  succor.     I  alone, 
With  bended  bow,  and  quiver  full  of  arrows, 
Hovered  about  the  enemy,  and  markt  d 
The  road  he  took,  then  hastened  to  my  friend: 
Whom  with  a  troop  of  fifty  chosen  men, 
I  met  advancing.    The  pursuit  I  led, 
Till  we  o'ertook  the  spoil  encumbered  foe. 
We  fought  and  conquered.     Ere  a  sword  w^as  drawn 
An  arrow  from  my  bow  had  pierced  their  chief. 
Who  wore  that  day  the  arms  which  now  I  wear. 
Rt  turning  home  in  triumph,  I  disdained 
The  shepherd's  slothful  life ;  and  having  heard 
That  our  good  king  had  summoned  his  bold  peers 
To  lead  their  warriors  to  the  Carron  side, 
I  left  my  father's  house,  and  took  with  me 
A  chosen  servant  to  conduct  my  steps — 
Yon  trembling  coward,  who  forsook  his  master. 
Journeying  with  this  intent,  I  passed  these  towers 
And,  Heaven-directed,  came  this  day  to  do 
The  happy  deed  that  gilds  my  humble  name. 

John  Ho.me. 


THE  RIDE  OF  PAUL  VENAREZ. 

AUL  VENAREZ  heard  them  say,  in  the  frontier 
town,  that  day, 
That  a  band  of  Red  Plume's  warriors  was 
upon  the  trail  of  death  ; 
Heard  them  tell  of  murder  done — three  men  killed  at 

Rocky  Run, 
"  They're  in  danger  up  at  Crawford's,"  said  Venarez, 
under  breath. 

"Crawford's" — thirty  miles  away— was  a  settlement, 
that  lay 
In  a  green  and  pleasant  valley  of  the  mighty  wilder- 
ness ; 
Haifa  score  of  homes  was  there,  and  in  one  a  maiden 
fair 
Held  the  heart  of  Paul  Venarez — "  Paul  Venarez'  lit- 
tle Bess." 

So  no  wonder  he  grew  pale  when  he  heard  the  settler's 
tale 
Of  the  men  he  had  seen  murdered  yesterday,  at 
Rocky  Run. 
"  Not  a  soul  will  dream,"  hesaid,  "of  the  danger  that's 
ahead ; 
By  my  love  for  little  Bessie,  I  must  see  that  some- 
thing's done." 

Not  a  moment  he  delayed,  when  his  brave  resolve  was 

made. 
"Why,  my  man,"  his  comrades  told  him  when  they 

knew  his  daring  plan, 
"  You  are  going  straight  to  death."     But  he  answered, 

"Save  your  breath, 
I  may  fail  to  get  to  Crawford's  but  I'll  do  the  best  I 

can." 

O'er  the  forest  rail  he  sped,  and  his  thoughts  flew  on 
ahead 
To  the  little  band  at  Crawford's,  thinking  not  of  dan- 
ger near. 
"  Oh,  God  help  me  save, "  cried  he,  "  little  Bess  !  "  And 
fast  and  free 
Trusty  Nell  bore  on  the  hero  of  the  far-away  frontier. 

Low  and  lower  sank  the  sun.     He  drew  rein  at  Rocky 

Run  ; 
"Here  these  men  met  death,   my  Nellie,"   and  he 

stroked  his  horse's  mane : 
"So  will  they  we  go  to  warn,  ere  the  breaking  of  the 

morn, 
If  we  fail,  God  help  us,  Nellie ! "    Then  he  gave  his 

horse  the  rein. 

Sharp  and  keen  a  rifle-shot  woke  the  echoes  of  the  spot. 
"  Oh,  my  Nellie,  I  am  wounded,"  cried  Venarez  with  a 

moan. 
And  the  warm  blood  from  his  side  spurted  out  in  a  red 

tide, 
And  he  trembled  in  the  saddle,  and  his  face  had  ashy 

grown. 


HEROISM   AND   ADVENTURE. 


183 


"I  will  save  them  yet,"  he  cried.     "Bessie  Lee  shall 
know  I  died 
For  her  sake."    And  then  he  halted  in  the  shelter  of 
a  hill : 
From  his  buckskin  shirt  he  took,  with  weak  hands  a 
little  book ; 
And  he  tore  a  blank  leaf  from  it     "  This,"  said  he 
"shall  be  my  will." 

From  a  branch  a  twig  he  broke,  and  he  dipped  his  pen 
of  oak 
In  the  red  blood  that  was  dripping  from  the  wound 
below  the  heart. 
"Rouse,"  he  wrote,   "before  too  late.     Red  Plume's 
warriors  lie  in  wait. 
Good-by,  Bess  !    God  bless  you  always."    Then  he 
felt  the  warm  tears  start. 

Then  he  made  his  message  fast,  love's  first  letter,  and 
its  last ; 
To  his  saddle-bow  he  tied  it,  while  his  lips  were  white 
with  pain. 
"  Bear  my  message,  if  not  me,  safe  to  little  Bess,"  said 
he. 
Then  he  leaned  down  in  the  saddle,  and  clutched 
hard  the  sweaty  mane. 

Just  at  dusk,  a  horse  of  brown,  flecked  with  foam,  came 
panting  down 
To  the  settlement  at  Crawford,  and  she  stopped  at 
Bessie's  door. 
But  her  rider  seemed  asleep.    Ah,  his  slumber  was  so 
deep 
Bessie's  voice  could  never  wake  him,  if  she  called 
forever  more. 

You  will  hear  the  story  told  by  the  young  and  by  the 
old 
In  the  settlement  at  Crawford's,  of  the  night  when 
Red  Plume  came ; 
Of  the  sharp  and  bloody  fight ;  how  the  chief  fell,  and 
the  flight 
Of  the  panic-stricken  warriors.    Then  they  speak 
Venarez'  name 

In  an  awed  and  reverent  way,  as  men  utter  "  Let  us 
pray," 
As  we  speak  the  name  of  heroes,  thinking  how  they 
lived  and  died  ; 
I  So  his  memory  is  kept  green,  while  his  face  and  heaven 
between 
Grow  the  flowers  Bessie  planted,  ere  they  laid  her  by 
his  side. 


THE  RELIEF  OF  LUCKNOW. 

THAT  last  day  in  Lucknow  fort ! 
We  knew  that  it  was  the  last ; 
«     That  the  enemy's  lines  crept  surely  on, 
And  the  end  was  coming  fast. 


To  yield  to  that  foe  meant  worse  than  death ; 

And  the  men  and  we  all  worked  on  ; 
It  was  one  day  more  of  smoke  and  roar, 

And  then  it  would  all  be  done. 

There  was  one  of  us,  a  corporal's  wife, 

A  fair,  young,  gentle  thing, 
Wasted  with  fever  in  the  siege, 

And  her  mind  was  wandering. 

She  lay  on  the  ground,  in  her  Scottish  plaid, 

And  I  took  her  head  on  my  knees ; 
"When  my  father  comes  hame  frae  the  pleugh,"  she 
said, 

"  Oh !  then  please  wauken  me." 

She  slept  like  a  child  on  her  father's  floor, 

In  the  flecking  oT  woodbine-shade. 
When  the  house-dog  sprawls  by  the  open  door, 

And  the  mother's  wheel  is  stayed. 

It  was  smoke  and  roar  and  powder-stench, 

And  hopelessly  waiting  for  deatli ; 
And  the  soldier's  wife,  like  a  full-tired  child, 

Seemed  scarce  to  draw  her  breath. 

I  sank  to  sleep  ;  and  I  had  my  dream 

Of  am  English  village-lane, 
And  wall  and  garden  ; — but  one  wild  scream 

Brought  me  back  to  the  roar  again. 

There  Jessie  Brown  stood  listening 

Till  a  sudden  gladness  broke 
All  over  her  face  ;  and  she  caught  my  hand 

And  drew  me  near  as  she  spoke  : — 

"The  Hielanders  !  O,  dinna  ye  hear 

The  slogan  far  awa  ? 
The  McGregor's — O,  I  ken  it  weel  ; 

It's  the  grandest  o'  them  a'  ! 

"  God  bl^ss  the  bonny  Hielanders  ! 

We're  saved  !  we're  saved  !  "  she  cried  ; 
And  fell  on  her  knees  ;  and  thanks  to  God 

Flowed  foith  like  a  full  flood  tide. 

Along  the  battery-line  her  cry 

Had  fallen  among  the  men, 
And  they  started  back  ; — they  were  there  to  die  ; 

But  was  life  so  near  them,  then  ? 

They  listened  for  life  ;  the  rattling  fire 

Far  off",  and  the  far-off"  roar, 
Were  all ;  and  the  colonel  shook  his  head, 

And  they  turned  to  their  guns  once  more. 

But  Jessie  said,  "The  slogan's  done ; 

But  winna  ye  hear  it  noo  ? 
The  Campbells  are  comin' !    It's  no  a  dream ' 

Our  succors  hae  broken  through  ! " 

We  heard  the  roar  and  the  rattle  afar, 

But  the  pipes  we  could  not  hear  ; 
So  the  men  plied  their  work  of  hopeless  w:  i 

And  knew  that  the  end  was  near. 


184 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


It  was  not  long  ere  it  made  its  way  — 

A  thrilling,  ceaseless  sound  : 
It  was  no  noise  from  the  strife  afar. 

Or  the  sappers  under  ground. 

It  was  the  pipes  of  the  Highlanders  ! 

And  now  they  played  Auld Lang  Syne! 
It  came  to  our  men  like  the  voice  of  God, 

And  they  shouted  along  the  line. 

And  they  wept,  and  shook  one-another's  hands, 

And  the  women  sobbed  in  a  crowd  ; 
And  every  one  knelt  down  where  he  stood, 

And  we  all  thanked  God  aloud. 

That  happy  time,  when  we  welcomed  them. 

Our  men  put  Jessie  first ; 
And  the  general  gave  her  his  hand,  and  cheers 

Like  a  storm  from  the  soldiers  burst. 

And  the  pipers'  ribbons  and  tartan  streamed, 
Marching  round  and  round  our  line  ; 

And  our  joyful  cheers  were  broken  with  tears, 
As  the  pipes  played  Auld  Lang  Syne. 

Robert  T.  S.  Lowell. 


I&' 


BY  THE  ALMA  RIVER. 

'ILLIE,  fold  your  little  hands  ; 

Let  it  drop — that  "soldier"  toy  : 
Look  where  father's  picture  stands — 
Father,  that  here  kissed  his  boy 
Not  a  month  since — father  kind. 
Who  this  night  may  (never  mind 
Mother's  sob,  my  Willie  dear) 
Cry  out  loud  that  He  may  hear 
Who  is  God  of  battles — cry, 
"  God  keep  father  safe  this  day 
By  the  Alma  River!" 

Ask  no  more,  child.     Never  heed 
Either  Russ,  or  F"rank,  or  Turk  ; 

Right  of  nations,  trampled  creed. 
Chance-poised  victory's  bloody  work ; 

Any  flag  i'  the  wind  may  roll 

On  thy  heights,  Sebastopol ! 

Willie,  all  to  you  and  me 

Is  that  spot,  whate'er  it  be, 

Where  he  stands — no  other  word — 

Stands — God  sure  the  child's  prayers  heard- 
Near  the  Alma  River. 

Willie,  listen  to  the  bells 

Ringing  in  the  town  to-day ; 
That's  for  victory.     No  knell  swells 

For  the  many  swept  away — 
Hundreds,  thousands.     Let  us  weep. 
We,  who  need  not— just  to  keep 
Reason  clear  in  thought  and  brain 
Till  the  morning  comes  again ; 


Till  the  third  dread  morning  tell 
Who  they  were  that  fought  and— fell 
By  the  Alma  River. 

Come,  we'll  lay  us  down,  my  child ; 

Poor  the  bed  is — poor  and  hard  ; 
But  thy  father,  far  exiled. 

Sleeps  upon  the  open  sward, 
Dreaming  of  us  two  at  home  ; 
Or,  beneath  the  starry  dome. 
Digs  out  trenches  in  the  dark. 
Where  he  buries — ^Willie,  mark ! — 
Where  he  buries  those  who  died 
Fighting — fighting  at  his  side — 
By  the  Alma  River. 

Willie,  Willie,  go  to  sleep  ; 

God  will  help  us,  O  my  boy  ! 
He  will  make  the  dull  hours  creep 

Faster,  and  send  news  of  joy  ; 
When  I  need  not  shrink  to  meet 
Those  great  placards  in  the  street, 
That  for  weelcs  will  ghastly  stare 
In  some  eyes — child,  say  that  prayer 
Once  again — a  different  one — 
Say,  "  O  God  !  Thy  will  be  done 
By  the  Alma  River." 

Dinah  Maria  Mulock  Craik, 


THE  TROOPER'S  DEATH, 

'HE  weary  night  is  o'er  at  last ! 
We  ride  so  still,  we  ride  so  fast ! 
We  ride  where  death  is  lying. 
"^       The  morning  wind  doth  coldly  pass, 
Landlord  !  we'll  take  another  glass. 
Ere  dying. 

Thou,  springing  grass,  that  art  so  green, 
Shalt  soon  be  rosy  red,  I  ween, 
My  blood  the  hue  supplying  ! 
I  drink  the  first  glass,  sword  in  hand, 
To  him  who  for  the  Fatherland 
Lies  dying ! 

Now  quickly  comes  the  second  draught. 
And  that  shall  be  to  freedom  quaflfed 

While  freedom's  foes  are  flying  ! 
The  rest,  O  land,  our  hope  and  faith  ! 
We'd  drink  to  thee  with  latest  breath, 
Though  dying ! 

My  darling^  ! — ah,  the  glass  is  out ! 
The  bullets  ring,  the  riders  shout — 

No  time  for  wine  or  sighing  ! 
There  !  bring  my  love  the  shattered  glass — 
Charge  !  on  the  foe  !  no  joys  surpass 
Such  dying ! 

From  the  Cennan.     Translation  of 
R.  W.  Raymond. 


HEROISM   AND   ADVENTURE. 


185, 


BALAKLAVA. 

THE  charge  at  Balaklava  ! 

O  that  rash  and  fatal  charge  ! 
Never  was  a  fiercer,  braver, 
Than  that  charge  at  Balaklava, 
On  the  battle's  bloody  marge  ! 
All  the  day  the  Russian  columns, 

Fortress  huge,  and  blazing  banks. 
Poured  their  dread  destructive  volumes 
On  the  French  and  English  ranks— 
On  the  gallant  allied  ranks  ! 
Earth  and  sky  seemed  rent  asunder 
By  the  loud  incessant  thunder  ! 
When  a  strange  but  stem  command — 
Needless,  heedless,  rash  command — 
Came  to  Lucan's  little  band — 
Scarce  six  hundred  men  and  horses 
Of  those  vast  contending  forces  : — 
"  England's  lost  unless  you  save  her  ! 
Charge  the  pass  at  Balaklava  !  " 

O  that  rash  and  fatal  charge. 
On  the  battle's  bloody  marge ! 
Far  away  the  Russian  eagles 

Soar  o'er  smoking  hill  and  dell, 
And  their  hordes,  like  howling  beagles. 

Dense  and  countless,  round  them  yell ! 
Thundering  cannon,  deadly  mortar, 
Sweep  the  field  in  every  quarter ! 
Never,  since  the  days  of  Jesus, 
Trembled  so  the  Chersonesus  ! 

Here  behold  the  Gallic  Lilies — 
Stout  St.  Louis'  golden  Lilies — • 
Float  as  erst  at  old  Ramillies  ! 
And  beside  tliem,  lo  !  the  Lion  ! 
With  her  trophied  cross,  is  flying  ! 
Glorious  standards ! — shall  they  waver 
On  the  field  of  Balaklava  ? 
No,  by  heavens  !  at  that  command — 
Sudden,  rash,  but  stern  command — 
Charges  Lucan's  little  band  ! 

Brave  six  hundred  !  lo  !  they  charge, 
On  the  battle's  bloody  marge  ! 

Down  J  on  deep  and  skirted  valley. 

Where  the  crowded  cannon  play — 
Where  the  Czar's  fierce  cohorts  rally, 
Cossack,  Calmuck,  savage  Kalli — 

Down  that  gorge  they  swept  away  ! 
Down  that  new  Thermopylae, 
Flashing  swords  and  helmets  see  ! 
Underneath  the  iron  shower. 

To  the  brazen  cannon's  jaws. 
Heedless  of  their  deadly  power. 

Press  they  without  fear  or  pause — 

To  the  very  cannon's  jaws  ! 
Gallant  Noland,  brave  as  Roland 

At  the  field  of  Roncesvalles, 

Dashes  down  the  fatal  valley. 


Dashes  on  the  bolt  of  death, 

Shouting  with  his  latest  breath, 
"  Charge,  then,  gallants  !  do  not  waver. 

Charge  the  pass  at  Balaklava  !" 

O  that  rash  and  fatal  charge, 
On  the  battle's  bloody  marge  ! 

Now  the  bolts  of  volleyed  thunder 
Rend  that  little  band  asunder. 
Steed  and  rider  wildly  screaming, 

Screaming  wildly,  sink  away  ; 
Late  so  proudly,  proudly  gleaming, 

Now  but  lifeless  clods  of  clay — 

Now  but  bleeding  clods  of  clay! 
Never,  since  the  days  of  Jesus, 
Saw  such  sight  the  Chersonesus  ! 
Yet  your  remnant,  brave  six  hundred, 
Presses  onward,  onward,  onward, 

Till  they  storm  the  bloody  pass — 

Till,  like  brave  Leonidas, 

They  storm  the  deadly  pass, 
Sabring  Cossack,  Calmuck,  Kalli, 
In  that  wild  shot-rended  valley — 
Drenched  with  fire  and  blood,  like  lava, 
Awful  pass  at  Balaklava  ! 

O  that  rash  and  fatal  charge. 
On  the  battle's  bloody  marge  I 

For  now  Russia's  rallied  forces. 
Swarming  hordes  of  Cossack  horses, 
Trampling  o'er  the  reeking  corses. 

Drive  the  thinned  assailants  back. 

Drive  the  feeble  remnant  back. 

O'er  their  late  heroic  track  ! 
Vain,  alas  !  now  rent  and  sundered. 
Vain  your  struggles,  brave  two  hundred  I 

Thrice  your  number  lie  asleep, 

In  that  valley  dark  and  deep. 
Weak  and  wounded  you  retire 
From  that  hurricane  of  fire — 
That  tempestuous  storm  of  fire-  , 

But  no  soldiers,  firmer,  braver, 

Ever  trod  the  field  of  fame, 
Than  the  Knights  of  Balaklava — 

Honor  to  each  hero's  name  ! 
Yet  their  country  long  shall  mourn 
For  her  rank  so  rashly  shorn — 
So  gallantly,  but  madly  shorn 

In  that  fierce  and  fatal  charge. 
On  that  battle's  bloody  marge. 

Alexander  Beaufort  Meek. 


CAVALRY  SONG. 

UR  good  steeds  snuff  the  evening  air, 
Our  pulses  with  their  purpose  tingle  ; 
The  foeman's  fires  are  twinkling  there  ; 
He  leaps  to  hear  our  sabres  jingle  ! 


186 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


Halt! 
Each  carbine  send  its  whizzing  ball : 
Now,  cling  !  clang  !  forward  all, 
Into  the  fight ! 

Dash  on  beneath  the  smoking  dome; 

Through  level  lightnings  gallop  nearer  ! 
One  look  to  heaven  I   No  thoughts  of  home  : 
The  guidons  that  we  bear  are  dearer. 

Charge ! 
Cling !  clang  !  forward  all ! 
Heaven  help  those  whose  horses  fall  • 
Cut  left  and  right ! 

They  flee  before  our  fierce  attack ! 

They  fall !  they  spread  in  broken  surges. 
Now,  comrades,  bear  our  wounded  back 
And  leave  the  foeman  to  his  dirges. 

Wheel  ! 
The  bugles  sound  the  swift  recall : 
Cling !  clang  !  backward  all  ! 
Home,  and  good-night ! 

Edmund  Clarence  Stedman. 


THE  NOBLEMAN  AND  THE  PENSIONER. 

LD  man,  God  bless  you  !    does  your  pipe 
taste  sweetly  ? 
A  beauty,  by  my  soul ! 
A  red-clay  flower-pot,  rimmed  with  gold 
so  neatly ! 
What  ask  you  for  the  bowl  ?  " 

"  O,  sir,  that  bowl  for  worlds  I  would  no*  part  with  ; 

A  brave  man  gave  it  me. 
Who  won  it — now  what  think  you  ? — of  a  bashaw 

At  Belgrade's  victory. 

"  There,  sir,  ah  !  there  war  booty  worth  the  showing — 

Long  life  to  Prince  Eugene  ! 
Like  after-grass  you  might  have  seen  us  mowing 

The  Turkish  ranks  down  clean." 

"Another  time  I'll  hear  your  story, — 

Come,  old  man,  be  no  fool  ; 
Take  these  two  ducats — gold  for  glory — 

And  let  me  have  the  bowl !  " 

'I'm  a  poor  churl,  as  you  may  say,  sir ; 

My  pension's  all  I'm  worth  : 
iTet  I'd  no'  give  that  bowl  away,  sir, 

For  all '  ae  gold  on  earth. 

just  hf  xr  now  !    Once,  as  we  hussars,  all  merry, 
Hard  jn  the  foe's  rear  pressed, 
A  blundering  rascal  of  a  janizary 
Shot  through  our  captain's  breast. 

"At  once  across  my  horse  I  hove  him — 

The  same  would  he  have  done — 
And  from  the  smoke  and  tumult  drove  him 

Safe  to  a  nobleman. 


"I  nursed  him,  and,  before  his  end,  bequeathing 

His  money  and  this  bowl 
To  me,  he  pressed  my  hand,  j'jst  ceased  his  breathing 

And  so  he  died,  brave  soul ! 

"  The  money  thou  must  give  mine  host — so  thought  I — 

Three  plunderings  suffered  he  : 
And,  in  remembrance  of  my  old  friend,  brought  I 

The  pipe  away  with  me. 

"  Henceforth  in  all  campaigns  with  me  I  bore  it, 

In  flight  or  in  pursuit ; 
It  was  a  holy  thing,  sir,  and  i  ^rore  it 

Safe-sheltered  in  my  boot 

"  This  very  limb,  I  lost  it  by  a  shot,  sir. 

Under  the  walls  of  Prague  -. 
First  at  my  precious  pipe,  ua  sure,  I  caught,  sir, 

And  then  picked  up  my  leg." 

"  You  move  me  even  to  tears,  old  sire  : 

What  was  the  brave  man's  name  ? 
Tell  me,  that  I,  too,  may  admire. 

And  venerate  his  fame." 

"  They  called  him  only  the  brave  Walter ; 

His  farm  lay  near  the  Rhine." — 
"  God  bless  your  old  eyes  !  't  was  my  father. 

And  that  same  farm  is  mine. 

"Come,  friend,  you've  seen  some  stormy  weather, 

With  me  is  now  your  bed  ; 
We'll  drink  of  Walter's  grapes  together, 

And  eat  of  Walter's  bread." 

"  Now — done  !  I  march  in,  then,  to-morrow ; 

You're  his  true  heir,  I  see  ; 
And  when  I  die,  your  thanks,  kind  master, 
The  Turkish  pipe  shall  be." 

From  the  German  of  Pfeffel.     Translation  of 
Charles  T.  Brooks. 

MY  WIFE  AND  CHILD. 

[Written  in  the  year  1846,  in  Mexico,  the  author  being  at  tha* 
time  Colonel  of  the  ist  Regiment  Georgia  Volunteers.] 

'HE  tattoo  beats — the  lights  are  gone. 
The  camp  around  in  slumber  lies. 
The  night  with  solemn  pace  moves  on. 
The  shadows  thicken  o'er  the  skies  ; 
But  sleep  my  weary  eyes  hath  flown, 
And  sad,  uneasy  thoughts  arise. 

I  think  of  thee,  O  darling  one. 
Whose  love  my  early  life  hath  blest — 

Of  thee  and  him — our  baby  son — 

^    Who  slumbers  on  tliy  gentle  breast. 

God  of  the  tender,  frail,  and  lone, 
O,  guard  the  tender  sleeper's  rest ' 

And  hover  gently,  hover  near 

To  her  whose  watchful  eye  is  wet- 
To  mother,  wife — the  doubly  dear. 


HEROISM   AND   ADVENTURE. 


is; 


In  whose  young  heart  have  freshly  met 
Two  streams  of  love  so  deep  and  clear, 
And  cheer  her  drooping  spirits  yet. 

Now,  while  she  kneels  before  thy  throne, 
O,  teach  her,  Ruler  of  the  skies. 

That,  while  by  thy  behest  alone 

Earth's  mightiest  powers  fall  or  rise. 

No  tear  is  wept  to  Thee  unknown. 
No  hair  is  lost,  no  sparrow  dies  ! 

That  Thou  canst  stay  the  ruthless  hand 
Of  dark  disease,  and  soothe  its  pain  ; 

That  only  by  Thy  stern  commands 
The  battle's  lost,  the  soldier's  slain  ; 

That  from  the  distant  sea  or  land 
Tiiou  bring'st  the  wanderer  home  again. 

And  when  upon  her  pillow  lone 

Her  tear-wet  cheek  is  sadly  pressed, 

May  happier  visions  beam  upon 
The  brightening  current  of  her  breast, 

No  frowning  look  or  angry  tone 
Disturb  the  Sabbath  of  her  rest ! 

WTiatever  fate  these  forms  may  show, 
Loved  with  a  passion  almost  wild, 

By  day,  by  night,  in  joy  or  woe, 

By  fears  oppressed,  or  hopes  beguiled, 

From  every  danger,  every  foe, 
O  God,  protect  my  wife  and  child  ! 

Henry  R.  Jackson. 

MONTEREY. 

E  were  not  many — we  who  stood 
Before  the  iron  sleet  that  day  ; 
Yet  many  a  gallant  spirit  would 
Give  half  his  years  if  but  he  could 
Have  been  with  us  at  Monterey. 

Now  here,  now  there,  the  shot  it  hailed 

In  deadly  drifts  of  fiery  spray. 
Yet  not  a  single  soldier  quailed 
When  wounded  comrades  round  them  wailed 

Their  dying  shout  at  Monterey. 

And  on,  still  on  our  column  kept, 

Through  walls  of  flame,  its  withering  way  ; 
Where  fell  the  dead,  the  living  stept, 
Still  charging  on  the  guns  which  swept 
The  slippery  streets  of  Monterey. 

The  foe  himself  recoiled  aghast, 

When,  striking  where  he  strongest  lay. 
We  swooped  his  flanking  batteries  past, 
And,  braving  full  their  murderous  blast. 
Stormed  home  the  towers  of  Monterey. 

Our  banners  on  those  turrets  wave. 

And  there  our  evening  bugles  play ; 
Where  orange  boughs  above  their  grave, 
Keep  green  the  memory  of  the  brave 
Who  fought  and  loll  at  Monterey. 


We  are  not  many — we  who  pressed 

Beside  the  brave  who  fell  that  day  ; 
But  who  of  us  has  not  confessed 
He'd  rather  share  their  warrior  rest 
Than  not  have  been  at  Monterey  ? 

Ch.\rlks  Fenno  Hoffman. 

THE  HEART  OF  THE  BRUCE. 

'  T  was  upon  an  April  mom. 

While  yet  the  frost  lay  hoar. 
We  heard  Lord  James's  bugle-horn 
Sound  by  the  rocky  shore. 

Then  down  we  went,  a  hundred  knights, 

All  in  our  dark  array. 
And  flung  our  armor  in  the  ships 

That  rode  witliin  the  bay. 

We  spoke  not  as  the  shore  grew  less. 

But  gazed  in  silence  back, 
Where  the  long  billows  swept  away 

The  foam  behind  our  track. 

And  aye  the  purple  hues  decayed 

Upon  the  fading  hill, 
And  but  one  heart  in  all  that  ship 

Was  tranquil,  cold,  and  still. 

The  good  Lord  Douglas  paced  the  deck, 

And  O,  his  face  was  wan  ! 
Unlike  the  flush  it  used  to  wear 

When  in  the  battle-van. 

"Come  hither,  come  hither,  my  trusty  k.iight. 

Sir  Simon  of  the  Lee  , 
There  is  a  freit  lies  near  my  soul 
I  fain  would  tell  to  thee. 

"  Thou  know'st  the  worJs  King  Robert  spoke 

Upon  his  dying  day  : 
How  he  bade  take  his  noble  heart 
And  carry  it  far  away ; 

"  And  lay  it  in  the  holy  soil 

Where  once  the  Saviour  trod, 
Since  he  might  not  bear  the  blessed  Cross, 
Nor  strike  one  blow  for  God. 

"  Last  night  as  in  my  bed  I  lay, 
I  dreamed  a  dreary  dream  : — 
Methought  I  saw  a  pilgrim  stand 
In  the  moonlight's  quivering  beam. 

"  His  robe  was  of  the  azure  dye. 
Snow-white  his  scattered  hairs. 
And  even  such  a  cross  he  bore 
As  good  St.  Andrew  bears. 

'  Why  go  ye  forth.  Lord  James,'  he  said, 
'  With  spear  and  belted  brand  ? 
Why  do  you  take  its  dearest  pledge 
From  this  our  Scottish  land  ? 


188 


CROWN  JFAVELS. 


"•The  sultry  breeze  of  Galilee 

Creeps  through  its  groves  of  palm, 
The  olives  on  the  Holy  Mount 
Stand  glittering  in  the  calm; 

"  '  But  't  is  not  there  that  Scotland's  heart 
Sliall  rest,  by  God's  decree, 
Till  the  great  angel  calls  the  dead 
To  rise  from  earth  and  sea  ! 

"  '  Lord  James  of  Douglas,  mark  my  rei  e  ! 
That  heart  shall  pass  once  more 
In  fiery  fight  against  the  foe. 
As  it  was  wont  of  yore. 

"  '  And  it  shall  pass  beneath  the  Cross, 

And  save  King  Robert's  vow  ; 

But  other  hands  shall  bear  it  back. 

Not,  James  of  Douglas,  thou  ! ' 

"  Now,  by  thy  knightly  faith,  I  pray. 
Sir  Simon  of  the  Lee — 
For  truer  friend  had  never  man 
Than  thou  hast  been  to  me — 

"  If  ne'er  upon  the  Holy  Land 
'T  is  mine  in  life  to  tread, 
Bear  thou  to  Scotland's  kindly  earth 
The  relics  of  her  dead." 

The  tear  was  in  Sir  Simon's  eye 
As  he  wrung  the  warrior's  hand — 
"  Betide  me  weal,  betide  me  woe.. 
I'll  hold  by  thy  command. 

"  But  if  in  battle-front,  Lord  James, 
'T  is  ours  once  more  to  ride, 
Nor  force  of  man,  nor  craft  of  fiend. 
Shall  cleave  me  from  thy  side  '  " 

And  aye  we  sailed  and  aye  we  sailed 

Across  the  weary  sea. 
Until  one  morn  the  coast  of  Spain 

Rose  grimly  on  our  lee. 

And  as  we  rounded  to  the  port, 
Beneath  the  watch-tower's  wall, 

We  heard  the  clash  of  the  atabals. 
And  the  trumpet's  wavering  call. 

"  Why  sounds  yon  eastern  music  here 
So  wantonly  and  long, 
And  whose  the  crowd  of  armed  men 
That  round  yon  standard  throng  ?  " 

"  The  Moors  have  come  from  Africa 
To  spoil  and  waste  and  slay, 
And  King  Alonzo  of  Castile 
Must  fight  with  them  to-day." 

"  Now  shame  it  were,"  cried  good  Lord  James, 
"Shall  never  be  said  of  me 
That  I  and  mine  have  turned  aside 
From  the  Cross  injeopardie  I 


'•  Have  down,  have  down,  my  merry  men  all- 
Have  down  unto  the  plain  , 
We'll  let  the  Scottish  lion  loose 
Withm  the  fields  of  Spain  !  " 

"  Now  welcome  to  me,  noble  lord, 
Thou  and  thy  stalwart  power  , 
Dear  is  the  sight  of  a  Christian  knight, 
Who  comes  in  such  an  hour  ! 

"  Is  it  for  bond  or  faith  you  come. 
Or  yet  for  golden  foe  ? 
Or  bring  ye  France's  lilies  here. 
Or  the  flower  of  Burgundie  ? " 

"  God  greet  thee  well,  thou  valiant  king. 
Thee  and  the  belted  peers — 
Sir  James  of  Douglas  am  I  called. 
And  these  are  Scottish  spears. 

"  We  do  not  fight  for  bond  or  plight. 
Nor  yet  for  golden  fee  ; 
But  for  the  sake  of  our  blessed  Lord, 
Who  died  upon  the  tree. 

"We  bring  our  great  King  Robert's  heart 
Across  the  weltering  wave, 
To  lay  it  in  the  holy  soil 

Hard  by  the  Saviour's  grave 

"True  pilgrims  we,  by  land  or  sea, 
W'here  danger  bars  the  way , 
And  therefore  are  we  here,  Lord  King, 
To  ride  with  thee  this  day  !  " 

The  King  has  bent  his  stately  head. 

And  the  tears  were  in  his  eyne — 

"God's  blessing  on  thee,  noble  knight. 

For  this  brave  thought  of  thine  ! 

"  I  know  thy  name  full  well,  Lord  James  ; 
And  honored  may  I  be, 
That  those  who  fought  beside  the  Bruce 
Should  fight  this  day  for  me  ! 

"  Take  thou  the  leading  of  the  van. 
And  charge  the  Moors  amain , 
There  is  not  such  a  lance  as  thine 
In  all  the  host  of  Spain  ! " 

The  Douglas  turned  towards  us  then, 
O,  but  his  glance  was  high  ! — 
"  There  is  not  one  of  all  my  men 
But  is  as  bold  as  I. 

"  There  is  not  one  of  all  my  knights 
But  bears  as  true  a  spear — 
Then  onward,  Scottish  gentlemen, 
And  think  King  Robert's  here  ' " 

The  trumpets  blew,  the  cross-bolts  flew. 

The  arrows  flashed  like  flame, 
As  spur  in  side,  and  spear  in  rest. 

Against  the  foe  we  came. 


HEROISM   AND   ADVENTURE. 


189 


And  many  a  bearded  Saracen 

Went  down,  both  horse  and  man ; 

For  through  their  ranks  we  rode  like  corn, 
So  furiously  we  ran  ! 

But  in  behind  our  path  they  closed, 

Though  fain  to  let  us  through. 
For  they  were  forty  thousand  men, 
And  we  were  wondrous  few. 

We  might  not  see  a  lance's  length, 

So  dense  was  their  array, 
But  the  long  fell  sweep  of  the  Scottish  blade 

Still  held  them  hard  at  bay. 

"  Make  in  !  make  in  ! "  Lord  Douglas  cried  — 
"  Make  in,  my  brethren  dear  ! 
Sir  William  of  St.  Clair  is  down  ; 
We  may  not  leave  him  here  1 " 

But  thicker,  thicker  grew  the  swarm. 

And  sharper  shot  the  rain. 
And  the  horses  reared  amid  the  press, 

But  they  would  not  charge  again. 

"Now  Jesus  help  thee,"  said  Lord  James, 
"  Thou  kind  and  true  St.  Clair ! 
And  if  I  may  not  bring  thee  off, 
I'll  die  beside  thee  there  ! " 

Then  in  his  stirrups  up  he  stood, 

So  lion-like  and  bold. 
And  held  the  precious  heart  aloft, 

All  in  its  case  of  gold. 

He  flung  it  from  him,  far  ahead, 

And  never  spake  he  more, 
But — "Pass  thou  first,  thou  dauntless  heart. 

As  thou  wert  wont  of  yore  ! " 

The  roar  of  fight  rose  fiercer  yet, 

And  heavier  still  the  stour. 
Till  the  spears  of  Spain  came  shivering  in, 

And  swept  away  the  Moor. 

"  Now  praised  be  God,  the  day  is  won ! 
They  fly,  o'er  flood  and  fell — 
Why  dost  thou  draw  the  rein  so  hard, 
Good  knight,  that  fought  so  well?" 

"  O,  ride  ye  on,  Lord  King  !  "  he  said, 
"  And  leave  the  dead  to  me. 
For  I  must  keep  the  dreariest  watch 
That  ever  I  shall  dree ! 

"  There  lies,  above  his  master's  heart, 
The  Douglas,  stark  and  grim  ; 
And  woe  is  me  I  should  be  here. 
Not  side  by  side  with  him  ! 

"  The  world  grows  cold,  my  arm  is  old, 
And  thin  my  lyart  hair. 
And  all  that  I  loved  best  on  eartli 
Is  stretched  before  me  tliere. 


"  O  Bothwell  banks,  that  bloom  so  bright 
Beneath  the  sun  of  May  ! 
The  heaviest  cloud  that  ever  blew. 
Is  bound  for  you  this  day. 

"  And  Scotland  !  thou  mayst  veil  thy  head 
In  sorrow  and  in  pain, 
The  sorest  stroke  upon  thy  brow 
Hath  fallen  this  day  in  Spain  ! 

'•  We'll  bear  them  back  unto  our  ship. 
We'll  bear  them  o'er  the  sea. 
And  lay  them  in  the  hallowed  earth 
Within  our  own  countrie. 

"And  be  thou  strong  of  heart,  Lord  King, 
For  this  I  tell  thee  sure. 
The  sod  that  drank  the  Douglas'  blood 
Shall  never  bear  the  Moor  !  " 

The  King  he  lighted  from  his  horse. 

He  flung  his  brand  away. 
And  took  the  Douglas  by  the  hand, 

So  stately  as  he  lay. 

"  God  give  thee  rest,  thou  valiant  soul ! 
That  fought  so  well  for  Spain  ; 
I'd  rather  half  my  land  were  gone, 
So  thou  wert  here  again ! " 

We  bore  the  good  Lord  James  away, 

And  the  priceless  heart  we  bore, 
And  heavily  we  steered  our  ship 

Towards  the  Scottish  shore. 

No  welcome  greeted  our  return. 

Nor  clang  of  martial  tread, 
But  all  w^ere  dumb  and  hushed  as  death 

Before  the  mighty  dead. 

We  laid  our  chief  in  Douglas  Kirk, 

The  heart  in  fair  Melrose  ; 
And  woful  men  were  we  that  day — 

God  grant  their  souls  repose  ! 

William  Edmlndstone  Avtoun. 

HUDIBRAS'  SWORD  AND  DAGGER. 

'IS  puissant  sword  unto  his  side, 
Near  his  undaunted  heart  was  tied. 
With  basket  hilt  that  would  hold  broth, 
And  serve  for  fight  and  dinner  both. 

In  it  he  melted  lead  for  bullets 

To  shoot  at  foes,  and  sometimes  pullets. 

To  whom  he  bore  so  fell  a  grutch 

He  ne'er  gave  quarter  to  any  such. 

The  trenchant  blade,  Toledo  trusty. 

For  want  of  fighting  was  grown  rusty. 

And  ate  into  itself,  for  lack 

Of  somebody  to  hew  and  hack. 

The  peaceful  scabbard,  where  it  dwelt, 

The  rancor  of  its  edge  had  felt ; 


! 


190 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


For  of  the  lower  end  two  handful 
It  had  devoured,  it  was  so  manful ; 
And  so  much  scorned  to  lurk  in  case, 
As  if  it  durst  not  show  its  face. 

This  sword  a  dagger  had,  his  page, 
That  was  but  little  for  his  age, 
And  therefore  waited  en  him  so 
As  dwarfs  unto  knight-errants  do. 
It  was  a  serviceable  dudgeon. 
Either  for  fighting  or  for  drudging. 
When  it  had  stabbed  or  broke  a  head, 
It  would  scrape  trenchers  or  chip  bread, 
Toast  cheese  or  bacon,  though  it  were 
To  bait  a  mouse-trap  't  would  not  care  ; 
'Twould  make  clean  shoes,  and  in  the  earth 
Set  leeks  and  onions,  and  so-forth  : 
It  had  been  'prentice  to  a  brewer, 
Where  this  and  more  it  did  endure  ; 
But  left  the  trade,  as  many  more 
Have  lately  done  on  the  same  score. 

Samuel  Butler. 


FLODDEN  FIELD. 

[The  battle  was  fought  in  September,  1513,  between  the  forces 
of  England  and  Scotland.  The  latter  were  worsted,  and  King 
James  slain  with  eight  thousand  of  his  men.  Lord  Surrey  com- 
manded the  English  troops.]  -' 

Q  MOMENT  then  Lord  Marmion  stayed. 
And  breathed  his  steed,  his  men  arrayed, 
Then  forward  moved  his  band, 
Until,  Lord  Surrey's  rear-guard  won. 
He  halted  by  a  cross  of  store, 
That  on  a  hillock  standing  lone. 
Did  all  the  field  command. 

Hence  might  they  see  the  full  array 

Of  either  host  for  deadly  fray  ; 

Their  marshalled  lines  stretched  east  and  west. 

And  fronted  north  and  south, 
And  distant  salutation  past 

From  the  loud  cannon-mouth  ; 
Not  in  the  close  successive  rattle 
That  breathes  the  voice  of  modern  battle, 

But  slow  and  far  between. — 

The  hillock  gained,  Lord  Marmion  stayed  : 
"  Here,  by  this  cross,"  he  gently  said, 

"  You  well  may  view  the  scene ; 
Here  shalt  thou  tarry,  lovely  Clare  : 
O,  think  of  Marmion  in  thy  prayer  ! — 
Thou  wilt  not?— well — no  less  my  care 
Shall,  watchful,  for  thy  weal  prepare — 
You,  Blount  and  Eustace,  are  her  guard. 

With  ten  picked  archers  of  my  train; 
With  England  if  the  day  go  hard. 
To  Berwick  speed  amain — 
But,  if  we  conquer,  cruel  maid. 
My  spoils  shall  at  your  feet  be  laid. 

When  here  we  meet  again." 


He  waited  not  for  answer  there, 

And  would  not  mark  the  maid's  despair, 

Nor  heed  the  discontented  look 
From  either  squire;  but  spurred  amain, 
And,  dashing  through  the  battle-plain, 

His  way  to  Surrey  took. 

Blount  and  Fitz-Eustace  rested  still 
With  Lady  Clare  upon  the  hill ; 
On  which  (for  far  the  day  was  spent) 
The  western  sunbeams  now  were  bent. 
The  cry  they  heard,  its  meaning  knew, 
Could  plain  their  distant  comrades  view  : 
Sadly  to  Blount  did  Eustace  say, 
"  Unworthy  office  here  to  stay  ! 
No  hope  of  gilded  spurs  to-day. — 
But,  see !  look  up — on  Flodden  bent 
The  Scottish  foe  has  fired  his  tent." 

And  sudden,  as  he  .spoke. 
From  the  sliarp  ridges  of  the  hill. 
All  downward  to  the  banks  of  Till 

Was  wreathed  in  sable  smoke. 
Volumed  and  vast,  and  rolling  far. 
The  cloud  enveloped  Scotland's  war, 

As  down  the  hill  they  broke; 
Nor  martial  shout,  nor  minstrel  tone. 
Announced  their  march  ;  their  tread  alone, 
At  times  their  warning  trumpet  blown. 

At  times  a  stifled  hum, 
Told  England  from  his  moimtain-throne 

King  James  did  rushing  come — 
Scarce  could  they  hear  or  see  their  foes. 
Until  at  weapon-point  they  close. 
They  close  in  clouds  of  smoke  and  dust. 
With  sword-sway  and  with  lance's  thrust  ; 

And  such  a  yell  was  there. 
Of  sudden  and  portentous  birth, 
As  if  men  fought  upon  the  earth 

And  fiends  in  upper  air  : 
O,  life  and  death  were  in  the  shout. 
Recoil  and  rally,  charge  and  rout, 

And  triumph  and  despair. 
Long  looked  the  anxious  squires  ;  their  eye 
Could  in  the  darkness  naught  descry. 

At  length  the  freshening  western  blast 
Aside  the  shroud  of  battle  cast ; 
And,  first,  the  ridge  of  mangled  spears 
Above  the  brightening  cloud  appears  ; 
And  in  the  smoke  the  pennons  flew. 
As  in  the  storm  the  bright  sea-mew. 
Then  marked  they,  dashing  broad  and  far, 
The  broken  billows  of  the  war. 
And  plumed  crests  of  chieftains  brave 
Floating  like  foam  upon  the  wave  ; 

But  naught  distinct  they  see  : 
W^ide  raged  the  battle  on  the  plain ; 
Spears  shook,  and  falchions  flashed  amain; 
Fell  England's  arrow-flight  like  rain ; 


HEROISM   AND   ADVENTURE. 


191 


Crests  rose,  and  stooped,  and  rose  again, 

Wild  and  disorderly. 
Amid  the  scene  of  tumult,  high 
They  saw  Lord  Marmion's  falcon  fly: 
And  stainless  Tunstall's  banner  white, 
And  Edmund  Howard's  lion  bright, 
Still  bear  them  bravely  in  the  fight ; 

Although  against  them  come 
Of  gallant  Gordons  many  a  one, 
And  many  a  stubborn  Highlandman, 
And  many  a  rugged  Border  clan, 

With  Huntley  and  with  Home. 

Far  on  the  left,  unseen  the  while, 
Stanley  broke  Lennox  and  Argyle ; 
Though  there  the  western  mountaineer 
Rushed  with  bare  bosom  on  the  spear, 
And  flung  the  feeble  targe  aside, 
And  with  both  hands  the  broadsword  plied, 
'T  was  vain  : — but  fortune,  on  the  right, 
With  fickle  smile,  cheered  Scotland's  fight. 
Then  fell  that  spotless  banner  white, 

The  Howard's  lion  fell ; 
Yet  still  Lord  Marmion's  falcon  flew 
With  wavering  flight,  while  fiercer  grew 

Around  the  battle-yell. 
The  Border  slogan  rent  the  sky  ! 
A  Home  !  a  Gordon  !  was  the  cry  : 
Loud  were  the  clanging  blows  ; 
Advanced — forced  back — now  low,  now  high. 

The  pennon  sunk  and  rose  ; 
As  bends  the  bark's  mast  in  the  gale. 
When  rent  are  rigging,  shrouds,  and  sail. 

It  wavered  mid  the  foes. 
No  longer  Blount  the  view  could  bear  : — 
"By  heaven  and  all  its  saints,  I  swear, 
I  will  not  see  it  lost ! 
Fitz-Eustace,  you  with  Lady  Clare 
May  bid  your  beads,  and  patter  prayer- 

I  gallop  to  the  host." 
And  to  the  fray  he  rode  amain. 
Followed  by  all  the  archer  train. 
The  fiery  youth,  with  desperate  charge. 
Made,  for  a  space,  an  opening  large — 

The  rescued  banner  rose. 
But  darkly  closed  the  war  around. 
Like  pine-tree,  rooted  from  the  ground, 

It  sunk  among  the  foes. 
Then  Eustace  mounted  too  ; — yet  stayed, 
As  loath  to  leave  the  helpless  maid. 

When,  fast  as  shaft  can  fly. 
Bloodshot  his  eyes,  his  nostrils  spread. 
The  loose  rein  dangling  from  his  head. 
Housing  and  saddle  bloody  red, 

Lord  Marmion's  steed  rushed  by  ; 
And  Eustace,  maddening  at  the  sight, 
A  look  and  sign  to  Clara  cast. 
To  mark  he  would  return  in  haste. 
Then  plunged  into  the  fight. 


Ask  me  not  what  the  maiden  feels. 
Left  in  that  dreadful  hour  alone  : 

Perchance  her  reason  stoops  or  reels ; 
Perchance  a  courage,  not  her  own, 
Braces  her  mind  to  desperate  tone. — 

The  scattered  van  of  England  wheels  ; — 
She  only  said,  as  loud  in  air 
The  tumult  roared,  "  Is  Wilton  there  ?  " — 
They  fly,  or,  maddened  by  despair. 
Fight  but  to  die—"  Is  Wilton  there  ? " 

With  that,  straight  up  the  hill  there  rode 
Two  horsemen  drenched  with  gore. 

And  in  their  arms,  a  helpless  load, 
A  wounded  knight  they  bore. 

His  hand  still  strained  the  broken  brand; 

His  arms  were  smeared  with  blood  and  sand. 

Dragged  from  among  the  horses'  feet, 

With  dinted  shield,  and  helmet  beat, 

The  falcon-crest  and  plumage  gone. 

Can  that  be  haughty  Marmion  !  .  .  .  . 

Young  Blount  his  armor  did  unlace. 

And,  gazing  on  his  ghastly  face. 
Said — "  By  St.  George,  he's  gone ! 

That  spear-wound  has  our  master  sped — 

And  see  the  deep  cut  on  his  head  1 
Good-night  to  Marmion.'" — 

"  Unnurtured  Blount  1  thy  brawling  cease  : 

He  opes  his  eyes,"  said  Eustace,  "peace  !  " 

When,  doffed  his  casque,  he  felt  free  air, 
Around  'gan  Marmion  wildly  stare  : — 
"Where's  Harry  Blount?  Fitz-Eustace  where? 
Linger  ye  here,  ye  hearts  of  hare  ! 
Redeem  my  pennon — charge  again  ! 
Cry — '  Marmion  to  the  rescue  ! ' — vain  ! 
Last  of  my  race,  on  battle-plain 
That  shout  shall  ne'er  be  heard  again  ! — 
Yet  my  last  thought  is  England's : — fly, 
To  Dacre  bear  my  signet-ring  : 
Tell  him  his  squadrons  up  to  bring : — 
Fitz-Eustace,  to  Lord  Surrey  hie  ; 
Trunstall  lies  dead  upon  the  field. 
His  life-blood  stains  the  spotless  shield  : 
Edmund  is  down ; — my  life  is  reft ; — 
The  Admiral  alone  is  left. 
Let  Stanley  charge  with  spur  of  fire — 
With  Chester  charge,  and  Lancashire, 
Full  upon  Scotland's  central  host, 
Or  victory  and  England's  lost. 
Must  I  bid  twice  ? — hence,  varlets  !  fly  I 
Leave  Marmion  here  alone — to  die." 
They  parted,  and  alone  he  lay  : 
Clare  drew  her  from  the  sight  away. 
Till  pain  wrung  forth  a  lowly  moan, 
And  half  he  murmured — "  Is  there  none, 

Of  all  my  halls  have  nurst, 
Page,  squire,  or  groom,  one  cup  to  bring, 
Of  blessed  water  from  the  spring. 
To  slake  my  dy^ng  thirst? " 


192 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


0  woman  !  in  our  hours  of  ease, 
Uncertain,  coy,  and  hard  to  please, 
And  variable  as  the  shade 

By  the  light  quivering^  aspen  made  ; 
When  pain  and  anguish  wring  the  brow, 
A  ministering  angel  thou  ! 
Scarce  were  the  pitying  accents  said, 
When,  with  the  Baron's  casque,  the  maid 

To  the  nigh  stream!  et  ran ; 
Forgot  were  hatred,  wrongs,  and  fears  ; 
The  plaintive  voice  alone  she  hears, 

Jiees  but  the  dying  man. 
She  stooped  her  by  the  runnel's  side. 

But  in  abhorrence  backward  drew  ; 
For,  oozing  from  the  mountain's  side, 
Where  waged  the  war,  a  dark-red  tide 

Was  curdling  in  the  streamlet  blue. 
Where  shall  she  turn  !  behold  her  mark 

A  little  fountain  cell, 
Where  water,  clear  as  diamond-spark, 

In  a  stone  basin  fell. 
Above,  some  half-worn  letters  say, 
'  Drink,  weary  pilgrim,  drink  and  pray 
For  the  kind  soul  of  Sybil  Grey, 

Who  built  this  cross  and  well." 
She  filled  the  helm,  and  back  she  hied, 
And  witla  surprise  and  joy  espied 

A  monk  supporting  Marmion's  head  ; 
A  pious  man  whom  duty  brought 
To  dubious  verge  of  battle  fought. 

To  shrive  the  dying,  bless  the  dead. 

Deep  drank  Lord  Marmion  of  the  wave. 
And,  as  she  stooped  lus  brow  to  lave — 
*'  Is  it  the  hand  of  Clare,"  he  said, 
*'Or  injured  Constance,  bathes  my  head?" 

Then,  as  remembrance  rose — 
*  Speak  not  to  me  of  shrift  or  prayer ! 

1  must  redress  her  woes. 

Short  space,  few  words  are  mine  to  spare ; 
Forgive  and  listen,  gentle  Clare  !  " — 

"Alas  !  "  she  said,  "the  while — 
O,  think  of  your  immortal  weal ! 
In  vain  for  Constance  is  your  zeal ; 

She — died  at  Holy  Isle." — 
Lord  Marmion  started  from  the  ground, 
As  light  as  if  he  felt  no  wound  ; 
Though  in  the  action  burst  the  tide 
In  torrents  from  his  wounded  side. 
"Then  it  was  truth  !  "  he  said, — "  I  knew 
That  the  dark  presage  must  be  true. — 
I  would  the  fiend,  to  whom  belongs 
The  vengeance  due  to  all  her  wrongs, 

Would  spare  me  but  a  day  ! 
For  wasting  fire,  and  dying  groan, 
And  priests  slain  on  the  altar  stone, 

Might  bribe  him  for  delay. 
It  may  not  be  ! — this  dizzy  trance — 
Curse  on  yon  base  marauder's  lance, 


And  doubly  cursed  my  failing  brand  ! 
A  sinful  heart  makes  feeble  hand." 
Then,  fainting,  down  on  earth  he  sunk. 
Supported  by  the  trembling  monk. 

With  fruitless  labor,  Clara  bound, 

And  strove  to  stanch  the  gushing  wo'und  : 

The  monk,  with  unavailing  cares, 

Exhausted  all  the  Church's  prayers. 

Ever,  he  said,  that,  close  and  near, 

A  lady's  voice  was  in  his  ear. 

And  that  the  priest  he  could  not  hear. 

For  that  she  ever  sung, 
"  In  the  lost  battle,  borne  down  by  the  flying. 
Where  mingles  war's    rattle  with  groans   of  the 
dying ! " 

So  the  notes  rung : — 
"Avoid  thee,  fiend  !— with  cruel  hand, 
Shake  not  the  dying  sinner's  sand  ! — 
O,  look,  my  son,  upon  yon  sign 
Of  the  Redeemer's  grace  divine  : 

O,  think  on  faith  and  bliss  : — 
By  many  a  death-bed  I  have  been, 
And  many  a  sinner's  parting  seen. 

But  never  aught  like  this." 

The  war,  that  for  a  space  did  fail. 

Now  trebly  thundering  swelled  the  gale, 

And — Stanley  !  was  the  cry  : — 
A  light  on  Marmion's  visage  spread. 

And  fired  his  glazing  eye  : 
With  dying  hand  above  his  head 
He  took  the  fragment  of  his  blade, 

And  shouted  "  Victory  ! " — 
Charge,  Chester,  charge  I  On,  Stanley,  on  !  " 
Were  the  last  words  of  Marmion. 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 


NASEBY. 

By    Obadiah    Bind-their-kings-in-chains-and-thkir-nobles- 

WITH-LINKS-OF-IRON  ;   SERGEA.NT   IN   IrETON'S   REGKVIK.NT. 

WHEREFORE  come   ye  forth,  in  triumph 
from  the  North, 
J     With  your  hands  and  your  feet  and  your 
raiment  all  red  ? 
And  wherefore  doth  your  rout  send  forth  a  joyous 

shout  ? 
And  whence  be  the  grapes  of  the  wine-press  that  ye 
tread  ? 

O,  evil  was  the  root,  and  bitter  was  the  fruit. 

And  crimson  was  the  juice  of  the  vintage  that  we  trod  ; 

For  we  trampled  on  the  throng  of  the  haughty  and  the 

strong. 
Who  sat  in  the  high  places  and  slew  the  saints  of  God. 

It  was  about  the  noon  of  a  glorious  day  in  June, 
That  we  saw  their  banners  dance  and  their  cuirasses 
shine, 


HEROISM   AND   ADVENTURE. 


193 


And  the  man  of  blood  was  there,  with  his  long  essenced  i  Fools  !  your  doublets  shone  with  gold,  and  your  hearts 


hair, 
And  Astley,  and  Sir  Marmaduke,  and  Rupert  of  the 
Rhine. 

Like  a  servant  of  the  Lord,  with  his  Bible  and  his 

sword, 
The  General  rode  along  us  to  form  us  to  the  fight; 
When  a  murmuring  sound  broke  out,  and  swelled  into 

a  shout 
Among  the  godless  horsemen  upon  the  tyrant's  right. 

And  hark  !  like  the  roar  of  the  billows  on  the  shore, 
The  cry  of  battle  rises  along  their  charging  line  ! 
For  God  !  for  the  cause ! — for  the  church  !  for  the  laws  ! 
For  Charles,   king  of  England,   and    Rupert  of  the 
Rhine! 

The  furious  German  comes,  with  his  clarions  and  his 

drums. 
His  braves  of  Alsatia,  and  pages  of  VVliitehall ; 
They  are  bursting  on  our  flanks.     Grasp  your  pikes  ! 

Close  your  ranks ! 
For  Rupert  never  comes  but  to  conquer,  or  to  fall. 

They  are  here  !    They  rush  on  !    We  are  broken !  We 

are  gone ! 
Our  left  is  borne  before  them  like  stubble  on  the  blast, 
O  Lord,   put  forth  thy  might !    O  Lord,  defend  the 

right! 
Stand  back  to  back,  in  God's  name  !  and  fight  it  to  the 

last! 

Stout  Skippon  hath  a  wound ;  the  centre  hath  given 

ground : 
Hark  !  hark !  what  means  the  trampling  of  horsemen 

on  our  rear  ? 
Whose  banner  do  I  see,  boys  ?    'T  is  he  !  thank  God  ! 

't  is  he,  boys  ! 
Bear  up  another  minute  !    Brave  Oliver  is  here. 

Their  heads  all  stooping  low,  their  points  all  in  a  row. 
Like  a  whirlwind  on  the  trees,  like  a  deluge  on  the 

dikes. 
Our  cuirassiers  have  burst  on  the  ranks  of  the  accurst. 
And  at  a  shock  have  scattered  the  forest  of  his  pikes. 

Fast,  fast  the  gallants  ride,  in  some  safe  nook  to  hide 
Their  coward  heads,  predestined  to  rot  on  Temple 

Bar; 
And  he — he  turns,  he  flies  : — shame  on  those  cruel  eyes 
That  bore  to  look  on  torture,  and  dare  not  look  on 

war! 

Ho !  comrades,  scour  the  plain ;  and,  ere  ye  strip  the 

slain. 
First  give  another  stab  to  make  your  search  secure  ; 
Then  shake  from  sleeves  and  pockets  their  broadpieces 

and  lockets. 
The  tokens  of  the  wanton,  the  plunder  of  the  poor. 
(13) 


were  gay  and  bold. 

When  you  kissed  your  lily  hands  to  your  lemans  to- 
day; 

And  to-morrow  shall  the  fox,  from  her  chambers  in  the 
rocks. 

Lead  forth  her  tawny  cubs  to  howl  above  the  prey. 

Where  be  your  tongues  that  late  mocked  at  heaven, 

hell  and  fate  ? 
And  the  fingers  that  once  were  so  busy  with  your 

bl  des. 
Your  perfumed  satin  clothes,  your  catches  and  your 

oaths ! 
Your  stage-plays  and  your  sonnets,  your  diamonds 

and  your  spades  .■' 

Down  !  down  !  forever  down,  with  the  mitre  and  the 
crown  ! 

With  the  Belial  of  the  court,  and  the  Mammon  of  the 
Pope ! 

There  is  woe  in  Oxford  halls ;  there  is  wail  in  Dur- 
ham's stalls  ; 

The  Jesuit  smites  his  bosom ;  the  bishop  rends  his 
cope. 

And  she  of  the  Seven  Hills  shall  mourn  her  children's 

ills, 
And  tremble  when  she  thinks  on  the  edge  of  England's 

sword ; 
And  the  kings  of  earth  in  fear  shall  shudder  when  they 

hear 
What  the  hand  of  God  hath  wrought  for  the  Houses 

and  the  Word ! 

Lord  Mac  aula  y. 


BANNOCKBURN. 

Robert  Bruce's  address  to  his  army. 

'  COTS,  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled  ; 
Scots,  wham  Bruce  has  aften  led  ; 
Welcome  to  your  gory  bed, 

Or  to  victorie 

Now's  the  day,  and  now's  the  hour ; 

See  the  front  o'  battle  lower  ; 

See  approach  proud  Edward  s  power  : 

Chains  and  slaverie ! 

Wha  will  be  a  traitor  knave  ? 
Wha  can  fill  a  coward's  grave? 
Wha  sae  base  as  be  a  slave  ? 

Let  him  turn  and  flee  I 

Wha  for  Scotland's  king  and  law, 
Freedom's  sword  will  strongly  draw, 
Freeman  stand,  or  freeman  fa'  ? 

Let  him  follow  me  ! 


194 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


By  oppression's  woes  and  pains  ! 
By  your  sons  in  servile  chains  ! 
We  will  drain  our  dearest  veins, 

But  they  shall  be  free  ! 

Lay  the  proud  usurpers  low  ! 
Tyrants  fall  in  every  foe  ! 
Liberty's  in  every  blow  ! 

Let  us  do,  or  die  ! 

Robert  Burns. 


BATTLE  OF  THE  BALTIC. 

F  Nelson  and  the  North, 
Sing  the  glorious  day's  renown, 
When  to  battle  fierce  came  forth 
All  the  might  of  Denmark's  crown. 

And  her  arms  along  the  deep  proudly  shone  ; 

By  each  gun  the  lighted  brand, 

In  a  bold  determined  hand, 

And  the  Prince  of  all  the  land 

Led  them  on — 

Like  leviathans  afloat, 

Lay  their  bulwarks  on  the  brine  , 

While  the  sign  of  battle  flew 

On  the  lofty  British  line  ; 

It  was  ten  of  April  morn  by  the  chime  : 

As  they  drifted  on  their  path, 

There  was  silence  deep  as  death  ; 

And  the  boldest  held  his  breath, 

For  a  time. 

But  the  might  of  England  flushed 

To  anticipate  the  scene  ; 

And  her  van  the  fleeter  rushed 

O'er  the  deadly  space  between. 

"  Hearts  of  oak,"  our  captains  cried  ;  whem  each  gun 

From  its  adamantine  lips 

Spread  a  death-shade  round  the  ships, 

Like  the  hurricane  eclipse 

Of  the  sun.  , 

Again  !  again  !  again  ! 

And  the  havoc  did  not  slack, 

Till  the  feeble  cheer  the  Dane 

To  our  cheering  sent  us  back ; — 

Their  shots  along  the  deep  slowly  boom ; — 

Tiien  cease — and  all  is  wail, 

As  they  strike  the  shattered  sail ; 

Or,  in  conflagration  pale, 

Light  the  gloom. 

Outspoke  \he  victor  then, 

As  he  hailed  them  o'er  the  wave, 

"  Ye  are  brothers  !  ye  are  men  ! 

And  we  conquer  but  to  save  : — 

So  peace  instead  of  death  let  us  bring. 

But  yield,  proud  foe,  thy  fleet, 

With  the  crews,  at  England's  feet, 

And  make  submission  meet 

To  our  king." 


Then  Denmark  blest  our  chief. 

That  he  gave  her  wounds  repose  ; 

And  the  sounds  of  joy  and  grief. 

From  her  people  wildly  rose. 

As  death  withdrew  his  shades  from  the  day ; 

While  the  sun  looked  smiling  bright 

O'er  a  wide  and  woeful  sight, 

Where  the  fires  of  funeral  light 

Died  away. 

Now  joy,  old  England,  raise  ! 
For  the  tidings  of  thy  might, 
By  the  festal  cities'  blaze, 
While  the  wine  cup  shines  in  light ; 
And  yet  amidst  that  joy  and  uproar. 
Let  us  think  of  them  that  sleep. 
Full  many  a  fathom  deep. 
By  thy  wild  and  stormy  steep, 
Elsinore  ! 

Brave  hearts  I  to  Britain's  pride 

Once  so  faithful  and  so  true. 

On  the  deck  of  fame  that  died — 

With  the  gallant  good  Riou  : 

Soft  sigh  the  winds  of  heaven  o'er  their  grave  ! 

While  the  billow  mournful  rolls, 

And  the  mermaid's  song  condoles, 

Singing  glory  to  the  souls 

Of  the  brave! 

Thomas  Campbell. 


A  COURT  LADY. 

'ER  hair  was  tawny  with  gold,  her  eyes  with  pur- 
ple were  dark, 
Her  cheeks'  pale  opal  burnt  with  a  red  and 
restless  spark. 

Never  was  lady  of  Milan  nobler  in  name  and  in  race 
Never  was  lady  of  Italy  fairer  to  see  in  the  face. 

Never  was  lady  on  earth  more  true  as  woman  and  wife. 
Larger  in  judgment  and  instinct,  prouder  in  manners 
and  life. 

She  stood  in  the  early  morning,  and  said  to  her  maid- 
ens, "  Bring 

That  silken  robe  made  ready  to  wear  at  the  court  of 
the  king. 

"  Bring  me  the  clasps  of  diamond,  lucid,  clear  of  the 

mote. 
Clasp  me  the  large  at  the  waist,  and  clasp  me  the 

small  at  the  throat. 

"  Diamonds  to  fasten  the  hair,  and  diamonds  to  fasten 

the  sleeves. 
Laces  to  drop  from  their  rays,  like  a  powder  of  snow 

from  the  eaves," 


HEROISM   AND  ADVENTURE. 


195 


Gorgeous  she  entered  the  sunlight  which  gathered  her 
up  in  a  flame, 

While  straight,  in  her  open  carriage,  she  to  the  hospi- 
tal came. 

In  she  went  at  the  door,  and  gazing,  from  end  to  end, 
"  Many  and  low  are  the  pallets,  but  each  is  the  place 
of  a  friend." 

Up  she  passed  through  the  wards,  and  stood  at  a 

young  man's  bed  : 
Bloody  the  band  on  his  brow,  and  livid  the  droop  of 

his  head. 

"Art  thou  a  Lombard,  my  brother  ?    Happy  art  thou !" 

she  cried, 
And  smiled  like  Italy  on  him  :  he  dreamed  in  her  face 

and  died. 

Pale  with  his  passing  soul,  she  went  on  still  to  a  second : 
He  was  a  grave,  hard  man,  whose  years  by  dungeons 
were  reckoned. 

Wounds  in  his  body  were  sore,  wounds  in  his  life  were 

sorer. 
"Art  thou  a  Romagnole  ?  "     Her  eyes  drove  lightnings 

before  her. 

"  Austrian  and  priest  had  joined  to  double  and  tighten 

the  cord 
Able  to  bind  thee,  O  strong  one — free  by  the  stroke  of 

a  sword. 

"  Now  be  grave  for  the  rest  of  us,  using  the  life  over- 
cast 

To  ripen  our  wine  of  the  present  (too  new)  in  glooms 
of  the  past." 

Down  she  stepped  to  a  pallet  where  lay  a  face  like  a 

girl's. 
Young,  and  pathetic  with  dying — a  deep  black  hole  in 

the  curls. 

"Art  thou  from  Tuscany,  brother?  and  seest  thou, 

dreaming  in  pain. 
Thy  mother  stand  in  the  piazza,  searching  the  list  of 

the  slain?" 

Kind  as  a  mother  herself,  she  touched  his  cheeks  with 

her  hands : 
"  Blessed  is  she  who  has  borne  thee,  although  she 

should  weep  as  she  stands." 

On  she  passed  to  a  Frenchman,  his  arm  carried  off  by 

a  ball : 
Kneeling,  ,  .  "O  more  than  my  brother  !  how  shall  I 

thank  you  for  all  ? 

"Each  of  the  heroes  around  us  has  fought  for  his 

land  and  line, 
But  thou  has  fought  for  a  stranger,  in  hate  of  a  wrogg 

not  thine. 


"  Happy  are  all  free  peoples,  too  strong  to  be  dis- 
possessed ; 

But  blessed  are  those  among  nations  who  dare  to  be 
strong  for  the  rest !  " 

Ever  she  passed  on  her  way,  and  came  to  a   couc!. 

where  pined 
One  with  a  face  from  Venetia,  white  with  a  hope  ou; 

of  mind. 

Long  she  stood  and  gazed,  and  twice  she  tried  at  the 

name, 
But  two  great  crystal  tears  were  all  that  faltered  ant" 

came. 

Only  a  tear  for  Venice  ? — she  turned  as  in  passion  ano 

loss, 
And  stooped  to  his  forehead  and  kissed  it,  as  if  she 

were  kissing  the  cross. 

Faint  with  that  strain  of  heart,  she  moved  on  tc 
another. 

Stern  and  strong  in  his  death.  "And  dost  thou  suf- 
fer, my  brother?  " 

Holding  his  hands  in  hers: — "Out  of  the  Piedmont 

lion 
Cometh  the  sweetness  of  freedom  !  sweetest  to  live 

or  to  die  on." 

Holding  his  cold,  rough  hands— "Well,  O,  well  have 

ye  done 
In  noble,  noble  Piedmont,  who  would  not  be  noble 

alone." 

Back  he  fell  while  she  spoke.    She  rose  to   her  fee: 

with  a  spring — 
"  That  was  a  Piedmontese  !  and  this  is  the  court  o: 

the  king." 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 


BATTLE   OF  WYOMING  AND  DEATH  OF 
GERTRUDE. 

EAVEN'S  verge  extreme 
Reverberates  the  bomb's  descending  star — 
And  sounds  that  mingled  laugh,  and  shout, 
and  scream, 
To  freeze  the  blood,  in  one  discordant  jar. 
Rung  to  the  pealing  thunderbolts  of  war. 
Whoop  after  whoop  with  rack  the  ear  assailed. 
As  if  unearthly  fiends  had  burst  their  bar  ; 
While  rapidly  the  marksman's  shot  prevailed, 
And  ay,  as  if  for  death,  some  lonely  trumpet  wailed. 

Then  looked  they  to  the  hills,  where  fire  o'erhung 

The  bandit  groups  in  one  Vesuvian  glare  ; 

Or  swept,  far  seen,  the  tower,  whose  clock  unrung. 

Told  legible  that  midnight  of  despair. 

She  faints — she  falters  not — the  heroic  fair, 

As  he  the  sword  and  plume  in  haste  arrayed. 


196 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


One  short  embrace — he  clasped  his  dearest  care ; 
But  hark  !  what  nearer  war-drum  shakes  the  glade  ! 
Joy,  joy!    Cohimbia's  friends  are  trampling  through 
the  shade  1 

They  came  of  every  race  the  mingled  swarm. 
Far  rung  the  groves  and  gleamed  the  midnight  grass 
With  flambeau,  javelin,  and  naked  arm  ; 
As  warriors  wheeled  their  culverins  of  brass, 
Sprung  from  the  woods,  a  bold  athletic  mass, 
Whom  virtue  fires,  and  liberty  combines  ; 
And  first  the  wild  Moravian  yagers  pass, 
His  plumed  host  the  dark  Iberian  joins  ; 
And  Scotia's  sword  beneath  tlie  Highland    thistle 
shines. 

And  in  the  buskined  hunters  of  the  deer 

To  Albert's  home  with  shout  and  cymbal  throng, 

Roused  by  their  warlike  pomp,  and  mirth,  and  cheer, 

Old  Outalissi  woke  his  battle-song, 

And,  beating  with  his  war-club  cadence  strong, 

Tells  how  his  deep-stung  indignation  smarts  ; 

Of  them  that  wrapt  his  house  in  flames,  erelong 

To  whet  a  dagger  on  their  sLony  hearts, 

And  smile  avenged  ere  yet  his  eagle  spirit  parts. 

Calm,  opposite  the  Christian  father  rose; 
Pale  on  his  venerable  brow  its  rays 
Of  martyr-light  the  conflagration  throws  ; 
One  hand  upon  his  lovely  child  he  lays, 
And  one  the  uncovered  crowd  to  silence  sways  ; 
While,  though  the  battle-flash  is  faster  driven 
Unawed,  with  eye  unstartled  by  the  blaze, 
He  for  his  bleeding  country  prays  to  Heaven, 
Prays  that  the  men  of  blood  themselves  may  be  for- 
given. 

Short  time  is  now  for  gratulating  speech  : 

And  yet,  beloved  Gertrude,  ere  began 

Thy  country's  flight  yon  distant  towers  to  reach, 

Looked  not  on  thee  the  rudest  partisan 

With  brow  relaxed  to  love  ?    And  murmurs  ran. 

As  round  and  round  their  willing  ranks  they  drew. 

From  beauty's  sight  to  shield  the,hostile  van. 

Grateful  on  them  a  placid  look  she  threw, 

Nor  wept,  but  as  she  bade  her  mother's  grave  adieu  ! 

Past  was  the  flight  and  welcome  seemed  the  tower, 

That  like  a  giant  standard-bearer  frowned 

Dt  fiance  on  the  roving  Indian  power. 

Beneath  each  bold  and  promontory  mound 

With  embrazure  em*bossed  and  armor  crowned, 

And  arrowy  frize,  and  wedged  ravelin. 

Wove  like  a  diadem  its  tracery  round 

The  lofty  summit  of  that  mountain  green  ; 

Here  stood  secure  the  group,  and  eyed  a  distant  scene, 

A  scene  of  death  !  where  fires  beneath  the  sun. 
And  blended  arms,  and  white  pavilions  glow ; 
And  for  the  business  of  destruction  done, 
Its  requiem  the  war-horn  seemed  to  blow : 


There,  sad  spectatress  of  her  country's  wo ! 
The  lovely  Gertrude,  safe  from  present  harm, 
Had  laid  her  cheek,  and  clasped  her  hands  of  snow 
On  Waldegrave's  shoulder,  half  within  his  arm 
Enclosed,  that  felt  her  heart,  and  hushed  its  wild  alarm  I 

But  short  that  contemplation — sad  and  short 
The  pause  to  bid  each  much-loved  scene  adieu ! 
Beneath  the  very  shadow  of  the  fort. 
Where  friendly  swords  were  drawn,  and  banners  flev/ ; 
Ah  !  who  could  deem  that  foot  of  Indian  crew 
Was  near? — yet  there,  with  lust  of  murderous  deeds. 
Gleamed  like  a  basilisk,  from  woods  in  view. 
The  ambushed  foeman's  eye — his  volley  speeds. 
And  Albert,  Albert  falls  !  the  dear  old  father  bleeds ! 

And  tranced  in  giddy  horror,  Gertrude  swooned  ; 
Yet,  while  she  clasps  him  lifeless  to  her  zone, 
Say,  burst  they,  borrowed  from  her  father's  wound, 
These  drops  ?    Oh  God  !  the  life-blood  is  her  own  : 
And  faltering,  on  her  Waldegrave's  bosom  thrown — 
"Weep  not,  O  love  ! "  she  cries,  "  to  see  me  bleed  ; 
Thee,  Gertrude's  sad  survivor,  thee  alone 
Heaven's  peace  commiserate  ;  for  scarce  I  heed 
These  wounds  ;  yet  thee  to  leave  is  death,  is  death  in- 
deed! 

Clasp  me  a  little  longer  on  the  brink 

Of  fate!  while  I  can  feel  thy  dear  caress  ; 

And  when  this  heart  hath  ceased  to  beat — oh  !  think. 

And  let  it  mitigate  thy  wo's  excess. 

That  thou  hast  been  to  me  all  tenderness, 

And  friend  to  more  than  human  friendship  just. 

Oh  !  by  that  retrospect  of  happiness, 

And  by  the  hopes  of  an  immortal  trust, 

God  shall  assuage  thy  pangs — when  I  am  laid  in  dust ! 

Go,  Henry,  go  not  back,  when  I  depart, 

The  scene  thy  bursting  tears  too  deep  will  move. 

Where  my  dear  father  took  thee  to  his  heart, 

And  Gertrude  thought  it  ecstasy  to  rove 

With  thee,  as  with  an  angel,  through  the  grove 

Of  peace,  imagining  her  lot  was  cast 

In  heaven ;  for  ours  was  not  like  earthly  love. 

And  must  this  parting  be  our  very  last  ? 

No  !  I  shall  love  thee  still,  when  death  itself  is  past. 

Half  could  I  bear,  methinks,  to  leave  this  earth. 

And  thee,  more  loved  than  aught  beneath  the  sun. 

If  I  had  lived  to  smile  but  on  the  birth 

Of  one  dear  pledge.     But  shall  there  then  be  none, 

In  future  times — no  gentle  little  one 

To  clasp  thy  neck,  and  look,  resembling  me  ? 

Yet  seems  it,  even  while  life's  last  pulses  run, 

A  sweetness  in  the  cup  of  death  to  be, 

Lord  of  my  bosom's  love  !  to  die  beholding  thee  ! " 

Hushed  were  his  Gertrude's  lips  !  but  still  their  bland 
And  beautiful  expression  seemed  to  melt 
With  love  that  could  not  die !  and  still  his  hand 
She  presses  to  the  heart  no  more  that  felt. 


HEROISM   AND   ADVENTURE. 


197 


Ah,  heart !  where  once  each  fond  affection  dwelt, 
And  features  yet  that  spoke  a  soul  more  fair. 
Mute,  gazing,  agonizing  as  he  knelt — 
Of  them  that  stood  encircling  his  despair 
He  heard  some  friendly  words ;  but  knew  not  what 
they  were. 

For  now  to  mourn  theit  judge  and  child  arrives 
A  faithful  band.    With  solemn  rites  between 
'T  was  sung  how  they  were  lovely  in  their  lives, 
And  in  their  deaths  had  not  divided  been. 
Touched  by  the  music  and  the  melting  scene. 
Was  scarce  one  tearless  eye  amidst  the  crowd — 
Stem  warriors,  resting  on  their  swords,  were  seen 
To  veil  their  eyes,  as  passed  each  much-loved  shroud — 
While  woman's  softer  soul  in  wo  dissolved  aloud. 

Then  mournfully  the  parting  bugle  bid 

Its  farewell  o'er  the  grave  of  worth  and  truth ; 

Prone  to  the  dust  afflicted  Waldegrave  hid 

His  face  on  earth  ;  him  watched,  in  gloomy  ruth, 

His  woodland  guide  :  but  words  had  none  to  soothe 

The  grief  that  knew  not  consolation's  name ; 

Casting  his  Indian  mantle  o'er  the  youth, 

He  watched,  beneath  its  folds,  each  burst  that  came. 

Convulsive,  ague-like,  across  tlie  shuddering  frame  ! 

"And  I  could  weep,"  the  Oneida  chief 

His  descant  wildly  thus  begun ; 

"  But  that  I  may  not  stain  with  grief 

The  death-song  of  my  father's  son. 

Or  bow  this  head  in  wo ! 

For,  by  my  wrongs,  and  by  my  wrath, 

To-morrow  Areouski's  breath. 

That  fires  yon  heaven  with  storms  of  death, 

Shall  light  us  to  the  foe  : 

And  we  shall  share,  my  Christian  boy, 

The  foeman's  blood,  the  avenger's  joy  ! 

But  thee,  my  flower,  whose  breath  was  g^ven 

By  milder  genii  o'er  the  deep. 

The  spirits  of  the  white  man's  heaven 

Forbid  not  thee  to  weep  : 

Nor  will  the  Christian  host, 

Nor  will  thy  father's  spirit  grieve. 

To  see  thee,  on  the  battle's  eve, 

Lamenting,  take  a  mournful  leave 

Of  her  who  loved  thee  most : 

She  was  tlie  rainbow  to  thy  sight ! 

Thy  sun — thy  heaven — of  lost  delight ! 

To-morrow  let  us  do  or  die. 

And  when  the  bolt  of  death  is  hurled, 

Ah !  whither  then  with  thee  to  fly. 

Shall  Outalissi  roam  the  world  ? 

Seek  we  thy  once-loved  home  ? 

The  hand  is  gone  that  cropt  its  flowers ; 

Unheard  their  clock  repeats  its  hours  ; 

Cold  is  the  hearth  within  theu-  bowers  : 

And  should  we  thither  roam, 

Its  echoes  and  its  empty  tread 

Would  sound  like  voices  from  the  dead ! 


Or  shall  we  cross  yon  mountains  blue, 

Whose  streams  my  kindred  nation  quaffed, 

And  by  my  side,  in  battle  true, 

A  thousand  warriors  drew  the  shaft  ? 

Ah  !  there,  in  desolation  cold, 

The  desert  serpent  sleeps  alone. 

Where  grass  o'ergrows  each  mouldering  bone, 

And  stones  themselves  to  ruin  grown, 

Like  me,  are  death-like  old. 

Then  seek  we  not  their  camp ;  for  there 

The  silence  dwells  of  my  despair  ! 

But  hark,  the  trump  !  to-morrow  thou 
In  glory's  fires  shalt  dry  thy  tears : 
Even  from  the  land  of  shadows  now 
My  father's  awful  ghost  appears 
Amidst  the  clouds  that  round  us  roll ; 
He  bids  my  soul  for  battle  thirst — 
He  bids  me  dr>-  the  last— the  first — 
The  only  tears  that  ever  burst 
From  Outalissi's  soul ; 
Because  I  may  not  stain  with  grief 
The  death-song  of  an  Indian  chief ! " 

Thomas  Campbell. 


^ 


CADYOW  CASTLE. 

HEN  princely  Hamilton's  abode 

Ennobled  Cadyow's  Gothic  towers. 

The  song  went  round,  the  goblet  flowed, 

And  revel  sped  the  laughing  hours. 


Then  thrilling  to  the  harp's  gay  sound. 
So  sweetly  rung  each  vaulted  wall, 

And  echoed  light  the  dancer's  bound. 
As  mirth  and  music  cheered  the  hall. 

But  Cadyow's  towers,  in  ruins  laid, 
And  vaults  by  ivy  mantled  o'er, 

Thrill  to  the  music  of  the  shade. 
Or  echo  Evan's  hoarser  roar. 

Yet  still  of  Cadyow's  faded  fame 
You  bid  me  tell  a  minstrel  tale, 

And  tune  my  harp  of  Border  frame 
On  the  wild  banks  of  Evandale. 

For  thou,  from  scenes  of  courtly  pride, 
From  pleasure's  lighter  scenes  can  turn, 

To  draw  oblivion's  pall  aside. 
And  mark  the  long-forgotten  urn. 

Then,  noble  maid,  at  thy  command 
Again  the  crumbled  walls  shall  rise  ; 

Lo,  as  on  Evan's  bank  we  stand, 
The  past  returns — the  present  flies. 

Where,  with  J:he  rocks'  wood-covered  side, 
Were  blended  late  the  ruins  green, 

Rise  turrets  in  fantastic  pride, 
And  feudal  banners  flaunt  between  : 


198 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


Where  the  rude  torrent's  brawling  course 
Was  shagged  with  thorn  and  tangling  sloe, 

The  ashler  buttress  braves  its  force, 
And  ramparts  frown  in  battled  row. 

'Tis  night — the  shades  of  keep  and  spire 
Obscurely  dance  on  Evan's  stream ; 

And  on  the  wave  the  warder's  fire 
Is  chequering  the  moonlight  beam. 

Fades  slow  their  light ;  the  East  is  gray  ; 

The  weary  warder  leaves  his  tower  ; 
Steeds  snort ;  uncoupled  stag-hounds  bay, 

And  merry  hunters  quit  the  bower. 

The  drawbridge  falls — they  hurry  out — 
Clatters  each  plank  and  swinging  chain. 

As,  dashing  o'er,  the  jovial  rout 
Urge  the  shy  steed  and  slack  the  rein. 

First  of  his  troop  the  chief  rode  on  ; 

His  shouting  merry-men  shout  behind  ; 
The  steed  of  princely  Hamilton 

Was  fleeter  than  the  mountain  wind. 

From  the  thick  copse  the  roebucks  bound. 
The  startled  red  deer  scuds  the  plain. 

For  the  hoarse  bugle's  warrior-sound 
Has  roused  their  mountain  haunts  again. 

Through  the  huge  oaks  of  Evandale, 

Whose  limbs  a  thousand  years  have  worn. 

What  sullen  roar  comes  down  the  gale, 
And  drowns  the  hunter's  pealing  horn  ? 

Mightiest  of  all  the  beasts  of  chase 

That  roam  in  woody  Caledon, 
Crashing  the  forest  in  his  race. 

The  mountain  bull  comes  thundering  on. 

Fierce  on  the  hunter's  quivered  hand 
He  rolls  his  eyes  of  swarthy  glow. 

Spurns,  with  black  hoof  and  horn,  the  sand, 
And  tosses  high  his  mane  of  snow. 

Aimed  well,  the  chieflain's  lance  has  flown 
Struggling  in  blood  the  savage  lies  ; 

His  roar  is  sunk  in  hollow  groan — 
Sound,  merry  huntsmen,  sound  the  pryse 

'Tis  noon — against  the  knotted  oak 

The  hunters  rest  the  idle  spear  ; 
Curls  through  the  trees  the  slender  smoke, 

Where  yeomen  dight  the  woodland  cheer. 

Proudly  the  chieftain  marked  his  clan, 
On  greenwood  lap  all  careless  thrown, 

Yet  missed  his  eye  the  boldest  man 
That  bore  the  name  of  Hamilton. 

'  Why  fills  not  Bothwellhaugh  his  place, 
Still  wont  our  weal  and  woe  to  share  ? 
Why  comes  he  not  our  sport  to  grace  ? 
Why  shares  he  not  our  hunter's  fare? " 


Stem  Claude  replied,  with  darkening  face, 
(Grey  Paisley's  haughty  lord  was  he), 
"At  merry  feast  or  buxom  chase 

No  more  the  warrior  wilt  thou  see. 

"  Few  suns  have  set  since  Woodhouselee 

Saw  Bothwellhaugh's  bright  goblets  foam. 
When  to  his  hearths,  in  social  glee. 
The  war-worn  soldier  turned  him  home. 

"  There,  wan  from  her  maternal  throes. 
His  Margaret,  beautiful  and  mild. 
Sat  in  her  bower,  a  pallid  rose. 
And  peaceful  nursed  her  new-bom  child. 

"  Oh,  change  accursed  !  passed  are  those  days  ; 
False  Murray's  mthless  spoilers  came, 
And,  for  the  hearth's  domestic  blaze, 
Ascends  destruction's  volumed  flame. 

"What  sheeted  phantom  wanders  wild, 

Where  mountain  Esk  through  woodland  flows, 
Her  arms  enfold  a  shadowy  child— 
Oh  !  is  it  she,  the  pallid  rose? 

"  The  wildered  traveler  sees  her  glide, 
And  hears  her  feeble  voice  with  awe — 
'  Revenge,'  she  cries,  '  on  Murray's  pride, 
And  woe  for  injured  Bothwellhaugh  !'" 

He  ceased — and  cries  of  rage  and  grief 
Burst  mingling  from  the  kindred  band. 

And  half  arose  the  kindling  chief, 
And  half  unsheathed  his  Arran  brand. 

But  who,  o'er  bush,  o'er  stream,  and  rock, 
Rides  headlong  with  resistless  speed, 

Whose  bloody  poniard's  frantic  stroke 
Drives  to  the  leap  his  jaded  steed  ; 

Whose  cheek  is  pale,  whose  eyeballs  glare, 
As  one  some  visioned  sight  that  saw  ; 

Whose  hands  are  bloody,  loose  his  hair? — 
'Tis  he,  'tis  he,  'tis  Bothwellhaugh  ! 

From  gory  sell  and  reeling  steed 
Sprung  the  fierce  horseman  with  a  bound; 

And,  reeking  from  the  recent  deed, 
He  dashed  his  carbine  on  the  ground. 

Sternly  he  spoke — "  'Tis  sweet  to  hear 
In  good  greenwood  the  bugle  blown. 

But  sweeter  to  revenge's  ear 
To  drink  a  tyrant's  dying  groan. 

"  Your  slaughtered  quarry  proudly  trode 
At  dawning  morn  o'er  dale  and  down. 
But  prouder  base-born  Murray  rode 
Through  old  Linlithgow's  crowded  town. 

"From  the  wild  border's  humbled  side 
In  haughty  triumph  marched  he  ; 
While  Knox  relaxed  his  bigot  pride. 
And  smiled  the  traitorous  pomp  to  see. 


HEROISM  AND  ADVENTURE. 


199 


"But  can  stern  power  with  all  her  vaunt, 
Or  pomp,  with  all  her  courtly  glare, 
The  settled  heart  of  vengeance  daunt, 
Or  change  the  purpose  of  despair? 

"With  hackbut  bent,  my  secret  stand, 
Dark  as  the  purposed  deed,  I  chose  ; 
And  marked  where,  mingling  in  his  band, 
Trooped  Scottish  pikes  and  English  bows. 

"Dark  Morton,  girt  with  many  a  spear, 
Murder's  foul  minion,  led  the  van ; 
And  clashed  their  broadswords  in  the  rear 
The  wild  Macfarlane's  plaided  clan. 

"Glencaim  and  stout  Parkhead  were  nigh, 
Obsequious  at  their  regent's  rein, 
And  haggard  Lindsay's  iron  eye, 
That  saw  fair  Mary  weep  in  vain. 

"  'Mid  pennoned  spears,  a  steely  grove, 
Proud  Murray's  plumage  floated  high  ; 
Scarce  could  his  trampling  charger  move, 
So  close  the  minions  crowded  nigh. 

"From  the  raised  vizor's  shade  his  eye, 
Dark  rolling,  glanced  the  ranks  along ; 
And  his  steel  truncheon,  waved  on  high. 
Seemed  marshaling  the  iron  throng. 

"But  yet  his  saddened  brow  confessed 
A  passing  shade  of  doubt  and  awe  ; 
Some  fiend  was  whispering  in  his  breast — 
Beware  of  injured  Bothwellhaugh. 

"The  death-shot  parts — the  charger  springs — 
Wild  rises  tumult's  startling  roar ! 
And  Murray's  plumy  helmet  rings — 
Rings  on  the  ground — to  rise  no  more. 

"What  joy  the  raptured  youth  can  feel 
To  hear  her  love  the  loved  one  tell — 
Or  he  who  broaches  on  his  steel 
The  wolf  by  whom  his  infant  fell ! 

"But  dearer  to  my  injured  eye 

To  see  in  dust  proud  Murray  roll ; 
And  mine  was  ten  times  trebled  joy 
To  hear  him  groan  his  felon  soul.  ^ 

"My  Margaret's  spectre  glided  near, 
With  pride  her  bleeding  victim  saw, 
And  shrieked  in  his  death-deafened  ear, 
Remember  injured  Bothwellhaugh ! 

"Then  speed  thee,  noble  Chatlerault ! 
Spread  to  the  wind  thy  bannered  tree  ! 
Each  warrior  bend  his  Clydesdale  bow ! 
Murray  is  fallen  and  Scotland  free  1" 

Vaults  every  warrior  to  his  steed  ; 
Loud  bugles  join  their  wild  acclaim — 
"  Murray  is  fallen,  and  Scotland  freed  ! 

Couch,  Arran,  couch  thy  spear  of  flame ! " 


But  see,  the  minstrel  vision  fails — 
The  glimmering  spears  are  seen  no  more  ; 

The  shouts  of  war  die  on  the  gales. 
Or  sink  in  Evan's  lonely  roar. 

For  the  loud  bugle,  pealing  high, 
The  blackbird  whistles  down  the  vale, 

And  sunk  in  ivied  ruins  lie 
The  bannered  towers  of  Evandale. 

For  chiefs,  intent  on  bloody  deed. 
And  vengeance  shouting  o'er  the  slain, 

Lo !  high-born  beauty  rules  the  steed. 
Or  graceful  guides  the  silken  rein. 

And  long  may  peace  and  pleasure  own 
The  maids  who  list  the  minstrel's  tale ; 

Nor  e'er  a  ruder  guest  be  known; 
On  the  fair  banks  of  Evandale. 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 


JAMES  FITZ-JAMES  AND    ELLEN. 


(3 


FOOTSTEP  struck  her  ear, 
And  Snowdoun's  graceful  Knight  was  near. 
She  turned  the  hastier,  lest  again 
The  prisoner  should  renew  his  strain. 
'O  welcome,  brave  Fitz-James  !"  she  said ; 
How  may  an  almost  orphan  maid 
Pay  the  deep  debt" — "  O,  say  not  so  I 
To  me  no  gratitude  you  owe. 
Not  mine,  alas  1  the  boon  to  give, 
And  bid  thy  noble  father  live  ; 
I  can  but  be  thy  guide,  sweet  maid. 
With  Scotland's  King  thy  suit  to  aid. 
No  tyrant  he,  though  ire  and  pride 
May  lead  his  better  mood  aside. 
Come,  Ellen,  come  ;  't  is  more  than  time. 
He  holds  his  court  at  morning  prime." 
With  beating  heart  and  bosom  wrung. 
As  to  a  brother's  arm  she  clung, 
Gently  he  dried  the  falling  tear, 
And  gently  whispered  hope  and  cheer  ; 
Her  faltering  steps  half  led,  half  stayed. 
Through  gallery  fair  and  high  arcade. 
Till,  at  his  touch,  its  wings  of  pride 
A  portal  arch  unfolded  wide. 

Within  't  was  brilliant  all  and  light, 
A  thronging  scene  of  figures  bright ; 
It  glowed  on  Ellen's  dazzled  sight. 
As  when  the  setting  sun  has  given 
Ten  thousand  hues  to  summer  eve 
And  from  their  tissue  fancy  frames 
Aerial  knights  and  fairy  dames. 
Still  by  Fitz-James  her  footing  stayed  ; 
A  few  faint  steps  she  forward  made. 
Then  slow  her  drooping  head  she  raised. 
And  fearful  round  the  presence  gazed  : 


200 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


For  him  she  sought  who  owned  this  state, 
The  dreaded  prince  whose  will  was  fate  ! 
She  gazed  on  many  a  princely  port 
Might  well  have  ruled  a  royal  court; 
On  many  a  splendid  garb  she  gazed — 
Then  turned  bewildered  and  amazed, 
For  all  stood  bare  ;  and  in  the  room 
Fitz-James  alone  wore  cap  and  plume. 
To  him  each  lady's  look  was  lent, 
On  him  each  courtier's  eye  was  bent. 
Midst  furs  and  silks  and  jewels  sheen 
He  stood,  in  simple  Lincoln  green, 
The  centre  of  the  glittering  ring — 
And  Snowdoun's  Knight  is  Scotland's  King  ! 

As  wreath  of  snow,  on  mountain  breast, 
Slides  from  the  rock  that  gave  it  rest, 
Poor  Ellen  glided  from  her  stay, 
And  at  the  Monarch's  feet  she  lay  ; 
No  word  her  choking  voice  commands  : 
She  showed  the  ring,  she  clasped  her  hands. 

0,  not  a  moment  could  he  brook. 

The  generous  prince,  that  suppliant  look  ! 
Gently  he  raised  her,  and  the  while 
Checked  with  a  glance  the  circle's  smile  ; 
Graceful,  but  grave,  her  brow  he  kissed, 
And  bade  her  terrors  be  dismissed  : — 
"  Yes,  fair ;  the  wandering  poor  Fitz-James 
The  fealty  of  Scotland  claims. 
To  him  thy  woes,  thy  wishes  bring  ; 
He  will  redeem  his  signet-ring. 
Ask  naught  for  Douglas ;  yester  even 
His  prince  and  he  have  much  forgiven ; 
Wrong  hath  he  had  from  slanderous  tongue, 

1,  from  his  rebel  kinsman,  wrong. 
We  would  not  to  the  vulgar  crowd 
Yield  what  they  craved  with  clamor  loud  ; 
Calmly  we  heard  and  judged  his  cause, 
Our  council  aided  and  our  laws. 

I  stanched  thy  father's  death-feud  stem. 
With  stout  De  Vaux  and  gray  Glencairn  ; 
And  Bothwell's  Lord  henceforth  we  own 
The  friend  and  bulwark  of  our  throne. 
But,  lovely  infidel,  how  now  ? 
What  cloud's  thy  misbelieving  brow? 
Lord  James  of  Douglas,  lend  thine  aid  ; 
Thou  must  confirm  this  doubting  maid." 

Then  forth  the  noble  Douglas  sprung. 

And  on  his  neck  his  daughter  hung. 

The  monarch  drank,  that  happy  hour. 

The  sweetest,  holiest  draught  of  power — 

When  it  can  say,  the  godlike  voice. 

Arise,  sad  virtue,  and  rejoice  ! 

Yet  would  not  James  the  general  eye 

On  nature's  raptures  long  should  pry : 

He  stepped  between — "  Nay,  Douglas,  nay, 

Steal  not  my  proselyte  away  1 

The  riddle  't  is  my  right  to  read. 

That  brought  this  happy  chance  to  speed. 


Yes,  Ellen,  when  disguised  I  stray 
In  life's  more  low,  but  happier  way, 
'T  is  under  name  which  veils  my  power. 
Nor  falsely  veils,  for  Stirling's  tower 
Of  yore  the  name  of  Snowdoun  claims, 
And  Normans  call  me  James  Fitz-James. 
Thus  watch  I  o'er  insulted  laws. 
Thus  learn  to  right  the  injured  cause." 
Then,  in  a  tone  apart  and  low, 
"  Ah,  little  trait'ress  !  none  must  know 
What  idle  dream,  what  lighter  thought. 
What  vanity  full  dearly  bought. 
Joined  to  thine  eye's  dark  witchcraft,  drew 
My  spell-bound  steps  to  Benvenue, 
In  dangerous  hour,  and  all  but  gave 
Thy  monarch's  life  to  mountain  glaive  ! " 
Aloud  he  spoke — "  Thou  still  dost  hold 
That  little  talisman  of  gold, 
Pledge  of  my  faith,  Fitz-James's  ring  : 
What  seeks  fair  Ellen  of  the  King  ?  " 

Full  well  the  conscious  maiden  guessed, 
He  probed  the  weakness  of  her  breast ; 
But  with  that  consciousness  there  came 
A  lightening  of  her  fears  for  Grasme, 
And  more  she  deemed  the  monarch's  ire 
Kindled  'gainst  him,  who,  for  her  sire. 
Rebellious  broadsword  boldly  drew  ; 
And,  to  her  generous  feeling  true. 
She  craved  the  grace  of  Roderick  Dhu. 

"Forbear  thy  suit ;  the  King  of  kings 
Alone  can  stay  life's  parting  wings. 
I  know  his  heart,  I  know  his  hand, 
Have  shared  his  cheer,  and  proved  his  brand. 
My  fairest  earldom  would  I  give 
To  bid  Clan-Alpine's  chieftain  live  ! — 
Hast  thou  no  other  boon  to  crave  ? 
No  other  captive  friend  to  save  ? " 
Blushing,  she  turned  her  from  the  king. 
And  to  the  Douglas  gave  the  ring. 
As  if  she  wished  her  sire  to  speak 
The  suit  that  stained  her  glowing  cheek. 

"  Nay,  then,  my  pledge  has  lost  its  force, 
And  stubborn  justice  holds  her  course. 
Malcolm,  come  forth  !  " — And,  at  the  word 
Down  knelt  the  Graeme  to  Scotland's  lord. 

"  For  thee,  rash  youth,  no  suppliant  sues, 
From  thee  may  vengeance  claim  her  dues, 
Who,  nurtured  underneath  our  smile, 
Hast  paid  our  care  by  treacherous  wile, 
And  sought,  amid  thy  faithful  clan, 
A  refuge  for  an  outlawed  man. 
Dishonoring  thus  thy  royal  name — 
Fetters  and  warder  for  the  Grseme  !  " 
His  chains  of  gold  the  king  unstrung. 
The  links  o'er  Malcolm's  neck  he  flung, 
Then  gently  drew  the  glittering  band. 
And  laid  the  clasp  on  Ellen's  hand. 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 


HEROISM   AND   ADVENTURE. 


201 


THE  SEA-CAVE. 

■  OUNG  Neuha  plunged  into  the  deep,  and  he 
Followed :  her  track  beneath  her  native  sea, 
Was  as  a  native's  of  the  element, 
So  smoothly,  bravely,  brilliantly  she  went. 
Leaving  a  streak  of  light  behind  her  heel, 
Which  struck  and  flashed  like  an  amphibious  steel. 
Closely,  and  scarcely  less  expert  to  trace 
The  depths  where  divers  hold  the  pearl  in  chase, 
Torquil,  the  nursling  of  the  Northern  seas. 
Pursued  her  liquid  steps  with  art  and  ease. 
Deep — deeper  for  an  instant  Nehua  led 
The  way — then  upward  soared — and,  as  she  spread 
Her  arms,  and  flung  the  foam  from  off"  her  locks, 
Laughed,  and  the  sound  was  answered  by  the  rocks. 
They  had  gained  a  central  realm  of  earth  again. 
But  looked  for  tree,  and  field,  and  sky,  in  vain. 

Around  she  pointed  to  a  spacious  cave, 

Whose  only  portal  was  the  keyless  wave, 

(A  hollow  archway  by  the  sun  unseen, 

Save  through  the  billows'  glassy  veil  of  green, 

In  some  transparent  ocean  holiday. 

When  all  the  finny  people  are  at  play). 

Wiped  with  her  hair  the  brine  from  Torquil's  eyes, 

And  clapped  her  hands  with  joy  at  his  surprise. 

Forth  from  her  bosom  the  young  savage  drew 

A  pine  torch,  strongly  girded  with  gnatoo ; 

A  plantain  leaf  o'er  all,  the  more  to  keep 

Its  latent  sparkle  from  the  sapping  deep. 

This  mantle  kept  it  dry  ;  then  from  a  nook 

Of  the  same  plantain  leaf,  a  flint  she  took, 

A  few  shrunk,  withered  twigs,  and  from  the  blade 

Of  Torquil's  knife  struck  fire,  and  thus  arrayed 

The  grot  with  torchlight.     Wide  it  was  and  high. 

And  showed  a  self-born  Gothic  canopy  ; 

The  arch  upreared  by  nature's  architect. 

The  architrave  some  earthquake  might  erect ; 

The  buttress  from  some  mountain's  bosom  hurled, 

When  the  poles  crashed  and  water  was  the  world  ; 

There,  with  a  little  tinge  of  phantasy. 

Fantastic  faces  moped  and  mowed  on  high. 

And  then  a  mitre  or  a  shrine  would  fix 

The  eye  upon  its  seeming  crucifix. 

Then  nature  played  with  the  stalactites, 

And  built  herself  a  chapel  of  the  seas. 

And  Neuha  took  her  Torquil  by  the  hand. 
And  waved  along  the  vault  her  kindled  brand. 
And  led  him  into  each  recess,  and  showed 
The  secret  places  of  their  new  abode. 
Nor  these  alone,  for  all  had  been  prepared 
Before,  to  soothe  the  lover's  lot  she  shared  ; 
The  mat  for  rest ;  for  dress  the  fresh  gnatfto, 
The  sandal-oil  to  fence  against  the  dew  ; 
For  food  the  cocoa-nut,  the  yam,  the  bread 
Bom  of  the  fruit ;  for  board  the  plantain  spread 
With  its  broad  leaf,  or  turtle-shell  which  bore 
A  banquet  in  the  flesh  if  covered  o'er ; 


The  gourd  with  water  recent  from  the  rill, 
The  ripe  banana  from  the  mellow  hill ; 
A  pine  torch  pile  to  keep  undying  light ; 
And  she  herself  as  beautiful  as  night, 
To  fling  her  shadowy  spirit  o'er  the  scene, 
And  make  their  subterranean  world  serene. 
She  had  foreseen,  since  first  the  stranger's  sail 
Drew  to  their  isle,  that  force  or  flight  might  fail, 
And  formed  a  refuge  of  the  rocky  den 
For  Torquil's  safety  from  his  countrymen. 
Each  dawn  had  wafted  there  her  light  canoe, 
Laden  with  all  the  golden  fruits  that  grew ; 
Each  eve  had  seen  her  gliding  through  the  hour 
With  all  could  cheer  or  deck  their  sparry  bower ; 
And  now  she  spread  her  little  store  with  smiles, 
The  happiest  daughter  of  the  loving  isles. 

'Twas  morn  ;  and  Neuha,  who  by  dawn  of  day 

Swam  smoothly  forth  to  catch  the  rising  ray. 

And  watch  if  aught  approached  the  amphibious  lair 

Where  lay  her  lover,  saw  a  sail  in  air : 

It  flapped,  it  filled,  then  to  the  growing  gale 

Bent  its  broad  arch  :  her  breath  began  to  fail 

With  fluttering  fear,  her  heart  beat  thick  and  high, 

While  yet  a  doubt  sprung  where  its  course  might  lie  : 

But  no  !  it  came  not ;  fast  and  far  away, 

The  shadow  lessened  as  it  cleared  the  bay. 

She  gazed,  and  flung  the  sea-foam  from  her  eyes. 

To  watch  as  for  a  rainbow  in  the  skies. 

On  the  horizon  verged  the  distant  deck, 

Diminished,  dwindled  to  a  very  speck — 

Then  vanished.    All  was  ocean,  all  was  joy ! 

Lord  Byron. 


BRISTOWE  TRAGEDY;  OR,  THE  DEATH  OF 
SIR  CHARLES  BAWDIN. 

'HE  feathered  songster  chanticleer 
Had  wound  his  bugle  horn, 
And  told  the  early  villager 
"^  The  coming  of  the  morn. 

King  Edward  saw  the  ruddy  streaks 

Of  light  eclipse  the  gray  ; 
And  heard  the  raven's  croaking  throat 

Proclaim  the  fated  day. 

"Thou'rt  right,"  quoth  he,  "lor,  by  the  God 
That  sits  enthroned  on  high  ! 
Charles  Bawdin,  and  his  fellows  twain, 
To-day  shall  surely  die." 

Then  with  a  jug  of  nappy  ale 
His  knights  did  on  him  wait. 
"  Go  tell  the  traitor,  that  to-day 
He  leaves  this  mortal  state." 

Sir  Canterlone  then  bended  low. 

With  heart  brimful  of  woe  ; 
He  journeyed  to  the  castle-gate. 

And  to  Sir  Charles  did  go. 


202 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


But  when  he  came,  his  children  twain, 

And  eke  his  loving  wife, 
With  briny  tears  did  wet  the  floor, 

For  good  Sir  Charles'  life. 

"O  good  Sir  Charles  !"  said  Canterlone, 

"  Bad  tidings  do  I  bring." 
"Speak  boldly,  man,"  said  brave  Sir  Charles, 

"  What  says  thy  traitor  king?" 

"  I  grieve  to  tell,  before  yon  sun 
Does  from  the  welkin  fly, 
He  hath  upon  his  honor  sworn, 
That  thou  shalt  surely  die." 

"We  all  must  die,"  quoth  brave  Sir  Charles, 
"  Of  that  I'm  not  affeared  ; 
What  boots  to  live  a  little  space  ? 
Thank  Jesus,  I'm  prepared  ; 

"  But  tell  thy  king,  for  mine  he's  not, 
I'd  sooner  die  to-day 
Than  live  his  slave,  as  many  are, 
Though  I  should  live  for  aye." 

Then  Canterlone  he  did  go  out, 

To  tell  the  mayor  straight 
To  get  all  things  in  readiness 

For  good  Sir  Charles's  fate. 

Then  Master  Canning  sought  the  king, 
And  fell  down  on  his  knee  : 
"  I'm  come,"  quoth  he,  "  unto  your  grace 
To  move  your  clemency." 

Then  quoth  the  king,  "  Your  tale  speak  out, 
You  have  been  much  our  friend  ; 

Whatever  your  request  may  be. 
We  will  to  it  attend." 

*'  My  noble  liege  :  all  my  request 
Is  for  a  noble  knight, 
Who,  though  mayhap  he  has  done  wrong, 
He  thought  it  still  was  right : 

"  He  has  a  spouse  and  children  twain, 
All  ruined  are  for  aye. 
If  that  you  are  resolved  to  let 
Charles  Bawdin  die  to-day." 

'  Speak  not  of  such  a  traitor  vile, 

The  king  in  fury  said ; 
"Before  the  evening  star  doth  shine, 
Bawdin  shall  lose  his  head. 

"Justice  does  loudly  for  him  call, 
And  he  shall  have  his  meed ; 
Speak,  Master  Channing  !  What  thing  else 
At  present  do  you  need  ?  " 

"My  noble  liege,"  good  Channing  said, 
"  Leave  justice  to  our  God, 
And  lay  the  iron  rule  aside  ; 
Be  thine  the  olive  rod. 


"Was  God  to  search  our  hearts  and  reins, 
The  best  were  sinners  great ; 
Christ's  vicar  only  knows  no  sin, 
In  all  this  mortal  state. 

"  Let  mercy  rule  thine  infant  reign, 
'Twill  fast  thy  crown  full  sure  ; 
From  race  to  race  thy  family 
All  sovereigns  shall  endure  : 

"But  if  with  blood  and  slaughter  thou 
Begin  thy  infant  reign, 
Thy  crown  upon  thy  children's  brows 
Will  never  long  remain." 

"Canning,  away  !  this  traitor  vile 
Has  spurned  my  power  and  me  ; 
How  canst  thou  then  for  such  a  man 
Intreat  my  clemency?  " 

"  My  noble  liege  !  the  truly  brave 
Will  val'rous  actions  prize, 
Respect  a  brave  and  noble  mind, 
Although  in  enemies." 

"  Canning,  away  !  By  God  in  heaven. 
That  did  my  being  give, 
I  will  not  taste  a  bit  of  bread 
Whilst  this  Sir  Charles  doth  live. 

"  By  Mary  and  all  saints  in  heaven. 
This  sun  shall  be  his  last ;  " 
Then  Canning  dropped  a  briny  tear. 
And  from  the  presence  passed. 

With  heart  brimful  of  gnawing  grief. 

He  to  Sir  Charles  did  go. 
And  sat  him  down  upon  a  stool, 

And  tears  began  to  flow. 

"We  all  must  die,"  <|uoth  brave  Sir  Charles  ; 
"  What  boots  it  how  or  when  ; 
Death  is  the  sure,  the  certain  fate 
Of  all  us  mortal  men. 

'  Say,  why,  my  friend,  thy  honest  soul 
Runs  over  at  thine  eye ; 
Is  it  for  my  most  welcome  doom 
That  thou  dost  child-like  cry  ?" 

Quoth  godly  Canning,  "  I  do  weep, 

That  thou  so  soon  must  die, 
And  leave  thy  sons  and  helpless  wife  ; 

'Tis  this  that  wets  mine  eye." 

"Then  dry  the  tears  that  out  thine  eye 
From  godly  fountains  spring ; 
Death  I  despise,  and  all  the  power 
Of  Edward,  traitor  king. 

"When  through  the  tyrant's  welcome  means 
I  shall  resign  my  life. 
The  God  I  serve  will  soon  provide 
For  both  my  sons  and  wife. 


HEROISM  AND  ADVENTURE. 


203 


"  Before  I  saw  the  lightsome  sun, 
This  was  appointed  me  ; 
Shall  mortal  man  repine  or  grudge 
What  God  ordains  to  be  ? 

"How  oft  in  battle  have  I  stood, 
When  thousands  died  around  ; 
Wlien  smoking  streams  of  crimson  blood 
Imbrued  the  fattened  ground : 

"  How  did  I  know  that  every  dart 
That  cut  the  airy  way, 
Might  not  find  passage  to  my  heart, 
And  close  mine  eyes  for  aye  ? 

"And  shall  I  now,  for  fear  of  death,  %> 

Look  wan  and  be  dismayed  ! 
No !  from  my  heart  fly  childish  fear, 
Be  all  the  man  displayed. 

"Ah  !  Godlike  Henry  !    God  forfend. 
And  guard  thee  and  thy  son, 
If 'tis  His  will ;  but  if 'tis  not, 
Why  then  His  will  be  done. 

"  My  honest  friend,  my  fault  has  been 
To  serve  God  and  my  prince  ; 
And  that  I  no  time-server  am. 
My  death  will  soon  convince. 

"  In  London  city  was  I  born. 
Of  parents  of  great  note  ; 
My  father  did  a  noble  arms 
Emblazon  on  his  coat : 

"I  make  no  doubt  but  he  is  gone 
Where  soon  I  hope  to  go  ; 
Where  we  forever  shall  be  blest. 
From  out  the  reach  of  woe  : 

"He  taught  me  justice  and  the  laws 
With  pity  to  unite  ; 
And  eke  he  taught  me  how  to  know 
The  wrong  cause  from  the  right : 

^  He  taught  me  with  a  prudent  hand, 
To  feed  the  hungry  poor, 
Nor  let  my  servant  drive  away 
The  hungry  from  my  door : 

"  And  none  can  say  but  all  my  life 
I  have  his  wordys  kept ; 
And  summed  the  actions  of  the  day 
Each  night  before  I  slept. 

"  I  have  a  spouse,  go  ask  of  her. 
If  I  defiled  her  bed  ? 
I  have  a  king,  and  none  can  lay 
Black  treason  on  my  head. 

"  In  Lent,  and  on  the  holy  eve. 
From  flesh  I  did  refrain  ; 
Why  should  I  then  appear  dismayed 
To  leave  this  world  of  pain  ? 


"No  !  hapless  Henry  !  I  rejoice 
I  shall  not  see  thy  death  ; 
Most  willingly  in  thy  just  cause 
Do  I  resign  my  breath. 

"  O,  fickle  people  !  ruined  land  ! 
Thou  wilt  ken  peace  nae  moe  ; 
While  Richard's  sons  exalt  themselves, 
Thy  brooks  with  blood  will  flow. 

"Say,  were  ye  tired  of  godly  peace. 
And  godly  Henry's  reign, 
That  you  did  chop  your  easy  days 
For  those  of  blood  and  pain  ? 

"  What  though  I  on  a  sled  be  drawn. 
And  mangled  by  a  hind? 
I  do  defy  the  traitor's  power. 
He  cannot  harm  my  mind ; 

"What  though,  uphoisted  on  a  pole. 
My  limbs  shall  rot  in  air, 
And  no  rich  monument  of  brass 
Charles  Bawdin's  name  shall  bear ; 

"  Yet  in  the  holy  book  above, 
Which  time  can't  eat  away. 
There  with  the  servants  of  the  Lord 
My  name  shall  live  for  aye. 

"Then  welcome  death  !  for  life  eteme 
I  leave  this  mortal  life , 
Farewell,  vain  world,  and  all  that's  dear, 
My  sons  and  loving  wife  ! 

"  Now  death  as  welcome  to  me  comes. 
As  e'er  the  month  of  May ; 
Nor  would  I  even  wish  to  live. 
With  my  dear  wife  to  stay." 

Quoth  Canning,  "  'Tis  a  goodly  thing 

To  be  prepared  to  die  ; 
And  from  this  world  of  pain  and  grief 

To  God  in  heaven  to  fly." 

And  now  the  bell  began  to  toll. 

And  clarions  to  sound  ; 
Sir  Charles  he  heard  the  horses'  feet 

A  prancing  on  the  ground  : 

And  just  before  the  officers. 

His  loving  wife  came  in, 
Weeping  unfeigned  tears  of  woe. 

With  loud  and  dismal  din. 

"  Sweet  Florence !  now  I  pray,  forbear — 
In  quiet  let  me  die ; 
Pray  God  that  everj'  Christian  soul 
May  look  on  death  as  I. 

"Sweet  Florence !  why  these  briny  tears ? 
They  wash  my  soul  away. 
And  almost  make  me  wish  for  life. 
With  thee,  sweet  dame,  to  stay. 


204 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


"  'Tis  but  a  journey  I  shall  go 
Unto  the  land  of  bliss  ; 
Now,  as  a  proof  of  husband's  love, 
Receive  this  holy  kiss." 

Then  Florence  faltering  in  her  say 
Trembling  these  wordys  spoke, 
"Ah,  cruel  Edward  !  bloody  king  ! 
My  heart  is  well  nigh  broke  : 

"Ah,  sweet  Sir  Charles !  why  wilt  thou  go, 
Without  thy  loving  wife  ! 
The  cruel  axe  that  cuts  thy  neck, 
It  eke  shall  end  my  life." 

And  now  the  officers  came  in 

To  bring  Sir  Charles  away, 
Who  turned  to  his  loving  wife, 

And  thus  to  her  did  say  : 

" I  go  to  life,  and  not  to  death, 
Trust  thou  in  God  above. 
And  teach  thy  sons  to  fear  the  Lord, 
And  in  their  hearts  Him  love  : 

"Teach  them  to  run  the  noble  race 
That  I  their  father  run : 
Florence  !  should  death  thee  take— adieu ! 
Ye  officers,  lead  on." 

Then  Florence  raved  as  any  mad. 
And  did  her  tresses  tear ; 
"  Oh  !  stay,  my  husband  !  lord  !  and  life  !  "— 
Sir  Charles  then  dropped  a  tear. 

Till  tired  out  with  raving  loud, 

She  fellen  on  the  floor ; 
Sir  Charles  exerted  all  his  might, 

And  marched  from  out  the  door. 

Upon  a  sled  he  mounted  then, 
With  looks  full  brave  and  sweet ; 

Looks  that  enshone  no  more  concern 
Than  any  in  the  street. 

Before  him  went  the  council-men, 

In  scarlet  robes  and  gold, 
And  tassels  spangling  in  the  sun. 

Much  glorious  to  behold  ; 

The  friars  of  Saint  Augustine  next 

Appeared  to  the  sight. 
All  clad  in  homely  russet  weeds. 

Of  godly  monkish  plight : 

In  diflferent  parts  a  godly  psalm 

Most  sweetly  did  they  chant ; 
Behind  their  backs  six  minstrels  came, 

Who  tuned  the  strung  bataunt. 

Then  five  and  twenty  archers  came  ; 

Each  one  the  bow  did  bend. 
From  rescue  of  King  Henry's  friends 

Sir  Charles  for  to  defend. 


Bold  as  a  lion  came  Sir  Charles, 

Drawn  on  a  cloth-laid  sled, 
By  two  black  steeds  in  trappings  white, 

With  plumes  upon  their  head  : 

Behind  him  five  and  twenty  more 

Of  archers  strong  and  stout, 
With  bended  bow  each  one  in  hand, 

Marched  in  goodly  rout : 

Saint  James's  friars  marched  next. 

Each  one  his  part  did  chant ; 
Behind  their  backs  six  minstrels  came. 

Who  tuned  the  strung  bataunt  : 

Then  came  the  mayor  and  aldermen, 
In  cloth  and  scarlet  decked  ; 

And  their  attending-men  each  one, 
Like  eastern  princes  trickt. 

And  after  them  a  multitude 

Of  citizens  did  throng  ; 
The  windows  were  all  full  of  heads, 

As  he  did  pass  along. 

And  when  he  came  to  the  high  cross. 
Sir  Charles  did  turn  and  say, 
"  O  Thou,  that  savest  man  from  sin. 
Wash  my  soul  clean  this  day  !" 

At  the  great  minster  window  sat 

The  king  in  mickle  state, 
To  see  Charles  Bawdin  go  along 

To  his  most  welcome  fate. 

Soon  as  the  sled  drew  nigh  enough, 
That  Edward  he  might  hear, 

The  brave  Sir  Charles  he  did  stand  up. 
And  thus  his  words  declare  : 

"Thou  seest  me,  Edward  !  traitor  vile  ! 
Exposed  to  infamy  ; 
But,  be  assured,  disloyal  man  1 
I'm  greater  now  than  thee. 

"  By  foul  proceedings,  murder,  blood, 
Thou  wearest  now  a  crown  ; 
And  hast  appointed  me  to  die. 
By  power  not  thine  own. 

"  Thou  thinkest  I  shall  die  to-day  ; 
I  have  been  dead  till  now, 
And  soon  shall  live  to  wear  a  crown 
For  aye  upon  my  brow  ; 

"  Whilst  thou,  perhaps,  for  some  few  years. 
Shall  rule  this  fickle  land, 
To  let  them  know  how  wide  the  rule 
'Twixt  king  and  tyrant  hand  ; 

"Thy  power  unjust,  thou  traitor  slave  ! 
Shall  fall  on  thy  own  head" — 
From  out  of  hearing  of  the  king 
Departed  then  the  sled. 


HEROISM   AND   ADVENTURE. 


205 


King  Edward's  soul  rushed  to  his  face, 

He  turned  his  head  away. 
And  to  his  brother  Gloucester 

He  thus  did  speak  and  say  : 

"To  him  that  so-much  dreaded  death 
No  ghastly  terrors  bring  ; 
Behold  the  man  !  he  spake  the  truth 
He's  greater  than  a  king  !" 

"  So  let  him  die  !"  Duke  Richard  said  ; 
"And  may  each  one  our  foes 
Bend  down  their  necks  to  bloody  axe, 
And  feed  the  carrion  crows." 

And  now  the  horses  gently  drew 
Sir  Charles  up  the  high  hill  ; 

The  axe  did  glister  in  the  sun, 
His  precious  blood  to  spill. 

Sir  Charles  did  up  the  scaffold  go, 

As  up  a  gilded  car 
Of  victory,  by  val'rous  chiefs 

Gained  in  the  bloody  war  : 

And  to  the  people  he  did  say, 

"  Behold  you  see  me  die, 
For  serving  loyally  my  king, 

My  king  most  rightfully. 

"  As  long  as  Edward  rules  this  land. 
No  quiet  will  you  know  ; 
Your  sons  and  husbands  shall  be  slain. 
And  brooks  with  blood  shall  flow. 

**  You  leave  your  good  and  lawful  king. 
When  in  adversity ; 
Like  me,  unto  the  true  cause  stick, 
And  for  the  true  cause  die." 

Then  he,  with  priests,  upon  his  knees, 

A  prayer  to  God  did  make, 
Beseeching  Him  unto  Himself 

His  parting  soul  to  take. 

Then,  kneeling  down,  he  laid  his  head. 

Most  seemly  on  the  block  ; 
Which  from  his  body  fair  at  once 

The  able  headsman  stroke  ; 

And  out  the  blood  began  to  flow, 
And  round  the  scaffold  twine  ; 

And  tears  enough,  to  wash't  away. 
Did  flow  from  each  man's  eyne. 

The  bloody  axe  his  body  fair 

Into  four  partes  cut ; 
And  every  part  and  eke  his  head, 

Upon  a  pole  was  put. 

One  part  did  rot  on  Kynwulft-hill, 

One  on  the  minster  tower. 
And  one  from  off  the  castle-gate 

The  crowen  did  devour ; 


The  other  on  St.  Powle's  good  gate, 

A  dreary  spectacle ; 
His  head  was  placed  on  the  high  cross, 

In  high-street  most  nobel. 

Thus  was  the  end  of  Bawdin's  fate : 

God  prosper  long  our  king. 
And  grant  he  may,  with  Bawdin's  soul, 

In  heaven  God's  mercy  sing  ! 

Thomas  Chatterton. 

THE  FORGING  OF  THE  ANCHOR. 

OME,  see  the  Dolphin's  anchor  forged — 'tis  at 
a  white  heat  now : 
The  bellows  ceased,   the  flames  decreased, 
though  on  the  forge's  brow 
The  little  flames  still  fitfully  play  through  the  sable 

mound, 
And  fitfully  you  still  may  see  the  grim  smiths  ranking 

round. 
All  clad  in  leather  panoply,  their  broad  hands  only' 

bare — 
j  Some  rest  upon  their  sledges  here,  some  work  thi 
windlass  there. 

j  The  windlass  strains  the  tackle  chains,  the  black  mound 
I         heaves  below, 

I  And  red  and  deep  a  hundred  veins  burst  out  at  every 
I         throe : 

It  rises,  roars,  rends  all  outright — O  Vulcan,  what  a 
glow  I 

'Tis  blinding  white,  'tis  blasting  bright — the  high  sun 
shines  not  so ! 

The  high  sun  sees  not,  on  the  earth,  such  a  fiery  fear- 
ful show ; 

The  roof-ribs  swarth,  the  candant  hearth,  the  ruddy 
lurid  row 

Of  smiths  that  stand,  an  ardent  band,  like  men  before 
the  foe. 

As,  quivering  through  his  fleece  of  flame,  the  sailing 
monster,  slow 

Sinks  on  the  anvil ; — ^all  about  the  faces  fiery  grow. 

"  Hurrah  ! "  they  shout,  "leap  out — leap  out ; "  bang, 
bang,  the  sledges  go ; 

Hurrah !  the  jetted  lightningfs  are  hissing  high  and 
low ; — 

A  hailing  fount  of  fire  is  struck  at  every  squashing 
blow, 

The  leathern  mail  rebounds  the  hail,  the  rattling  cin- 
ders strew 

The  ground  around ;  at  every  bound  the  sweltering 
fountains  flow. 

And  thick  and  loud  the  swinking  crowd  at  every  stroke 
pant,  "Ho!" 

Leap  out,  leap  out,  my  masters  ;  leap  out,  and  lay  on 

load! 
Let's  forge  a  goodly    anchor ; — a   bower  thick  and 

broad ; 


206 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


For  a  heart  of  oak  is  hanging  on  every  blow,  I  bode, 

And  I  see  the  good  ship  riding,  all  in  a  perilous  road — 

The  low  reef  roaring  on  her  lee — the  roll  of  ocean 
poured 

From  stem  to  stem,  sea  after  sea ;  the  mainmast  by  the 
board ; 

The  bulwarks  down,  the  rudder  gone,  the  boats  stove 
at  the  chains ! 

But  courage  still,  brave  mariners !  the  bower  yet  re- 
mains, 

And  not  an  inch  to  flinch  he  deigns,  save  when  ye 
pitch  sky  high  ; 

Then  moves  his  head,  as  though  he  said,  "  Fear  noth- 
ing— here  am  I." 

Swing  in  your  strokes  in  order,  let  foot  and  hand  keep- 
time: 

Your  blows  make  music  sweeter  far  than  any  steeple's 
chime. 

But  while  you  sling  your  sledges,  sing — and  let  the 
burthen  be, 

The  anchor  is  the  anvil  king,  and  royal  craftsmen  we  ! 

Strike  in,  strike  in— the  sparks  begin  to  dull  their  rust- 
ling red ; 

Our  hammers  ring  with  sharper  din,  our  work  will 
soon  be  sped. 

Our  anchor  soon  must  change  his  bed  of  fiery  rich  array, 

For  a  hammock  at  the  roaring  bows,  on  an  oozy  couch 
of  clay ; 

Our  anchor  soon  mast  change  the  lay  of  merry  crafts- 
men here, 

For  the  yeo-heave-o',  and  the  heave-away,  and  the 
sighing  seaman's  cheer ; 

When,  weighing  slow,  at  eve  they  go — far,  far  from 
love  and  home ; 

And  sobbing  sweethearts,  in  a  row,  wail  o'er  the  ocean 
foam.    ■  • 

In  livid  and  obdurate  gloom  he  darkens  down  at  last ; 
A    shapely  one  he  is,  and  strong,    as  e'er  from  cat 

was  cast. 
O  trusted  and  trustworthy  guard,  if  thou  hadst  life  like 

me. 
What  pleasures  would  thy  toils  reward  beneath  the 

deep  green  sea ! 
O  deep  sea-diver,  who  might  then  behold  such  sights 

as  thou? 
The  hoary  monster's  palaces  1  methinks  what  joy  'twere 

now 
To  go  plumb  plunging  down  amid  the  assembly  of  the 

whales, 
And  feel  the  churned  sea  round  me  boil  beneath  their 

scourging  tails  ! 
Then  deep  in  tangle-weeds  to  fight  the  fierce  sea-uni- 
corn, * 
And  send  him  foiled  and  bellowing  back,  for  all  his 

ivory  horn ; 
To  leave  the  subtile  sworder-fish  of  bony  blade  forlorn  ; 
And  for  the  ghastlv-grinning  shark  to  laugh  his  jaws  to 

scorn  • 


To  leap  down  on  the  kraken's  back,  where  'mid  Nor- 
wegian isles 

He  lies,  a  lubber  anchorage  for  sudden  shallowed  miles  ; 

Till  snorting,  like  an  under-sea  volcano,  off  he  rolls  ; 

Meanwhile  to  swing,  a-buffeting  the  far  astonished 
shoals 

Of  his  back-browsing  ocean-calves;  or,  happily  in  a  cove, 

Shell-strewn,  and  consecrate  of  old  to  some  Undine's 
love. 

To  find  the  long-haired  maidens  ;  or,  hard  by  icy  lands, 

To  wrestle  with  the  sea-serpent,  upon  cerulean  sands. 

O  broad-armed  fisher  of  the  deep,  whose  sports  can 
equal  thine  ? 

The  dolphin  weighs  a  thousand  tons,  that  tugs  thy  ca- 
ble line  ; 

And  night  by  night,  'tis  thy  delight,  thy  glory  day  by 
day. 

Through  sable  sea  and  breaker  white,  the  giant  game 
to  play — 

But  shamer  of  our  little  sports !  forgive  the  name  I 
gave — 

A  fisher's  joy  is  to  destroy — thine  office  is  to  save. 

O  lodger  in  the  sea-king's  halls  !  couldst  thou  but  un- 
derstand 

Whose  be  the  white  bones  by  thy  side — or  who  that 
dripping  band. 

Slow  swaying  in  the  heaving  wave,  that  round  about 
thee  bend. 

With  sounds  like  breakers  in  a  dream,  blessing  their 
ancient  friend  ; — 

O,  couldst  thou  know  what  heroes  glide  with  larger 
steps  round  thee. 

Thine  iron  side  would  swell  with  pride — thou'dst  leap 

t  .    within  the  sea  ! 

Give  honor  to  their  memories  who  left  the  pleasant 
strand 

To  shed  their  blood  so  freely  for  the  love  of  father- 
land— 

Who  left  their  chance  of  quiet  age  and  grassy  church- 
yard grave 

So  freely,  for  a  restless  bed  amid  the  tossing  wave ! 

O,  though  our  anchor  may  not  be  all  I  have  fondly 
sung, 

Honor  him  for  their  memory  whose  bones  he  goes 
among ! 

Samuel  Ferguson. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  ALEXANDRIA. 

'ARP  of  Memnon  !  sweetly  strung 
To  the  music  of  the  spheres  ; 
While  the  hero's  dirge  is  sung, 
Breathe  enchantment  to  our  ears. 

Let  thy  numbers,  soft  and  slow. 
O'er  the  plain  wiih  carnage  spread 

Soothe  the  dying  while  they  flow 
To  the  memory  of  the  dead. 


HEROISM   AND   ADVENTURE. 


207 


¥ 


Lashed  to  madness  by  the  wind, 

As  the  Red  Sea  surges  roar, 
Leave  a  gloomy  gulf  behind, 

And  devour  the  shrinking  shore. 

Thus,  with  overwhelming  pride, 
Gallia's  brightest,  boldest  boast, 

In  a  deep  and  dreadful  tide. 
Rolled  upon  the  British  host. 

Now  the  veteran  chief  drew  nigh, 
Conquest  towering  on  his  crest, 

Valor  beaming  from  his  eye. 
Pity  bleeding  on  his  breast. 

On  the  whirlwind  of  the  war 
High  he  rode  in  vengeance  dire  ; 

To  his  friends  a  leading  star; 
To  his  foes  consuming  fire. 

Charged  with  Abercrombie's  doom, 
Lightning  winged  a  cruel  ball : 

'Twas  the  herald  of  the  tomb, 
And  the  hero  felt  the  call — 

Felt — and  raised  his  arms  on  high  ; 

Victory  well  the  signal  knew. 
Darted  from  his  awful  eye, 

And  the  force  of  France  o'erthrew. 

Harp  of  Memnon  !  sweetly  strung 

To  the  music  of  the  spheres  ; 
While  the  hero's  dirge  is  sung, 

Breathe  enchantment  to  our  ears. 

Let  thy  numbers,  soft  and  slow, 
O'er  the  plain  with  carnage  spread, 

Soothe  the  dying  while  they  flow 
To  the  memory  of  the  dead. 

Then  thy  tones  triumphant  pour, 
Let  them  pierce  the  hero's  grave  ; 

Life's  tumultuous  battle  o'er, 
O,  how  sweetly  sleep  the  brave  ! 

From  the  dust  their  laurels  bloom, 
High  they  shoot  and  flourish  free  ; 

Glory's  temple  is  the  tomb  ; 
Death  is  immortality. 

James  Montgomery. 

THE  BALLAD  OF  AGINCOURT. 

AIR  stood  the  wind  for  France, 
When  we  our  sails  advance. 
Nor  now  to  prove  our  chance 

Longer  will  tarry ; 
But  putting  to  the  main. 
At  Kause,  the  mouth  of  Seine, 
With  all  his  martial  train, 
Landed  King  Harry. 

And  taking  many  a  fort. 
Furnished  in  warlike  sort. 


Marched  toward  Agincourt 

In  happy  hour ; 
Skirmishing  day  by  day 
With  those  that  stopped  his  way, 
Where  the  French  general  lay 

With  all  his  power. 

Which  in  his  height  of  pride, 
King  Henry  to  deride, 
His  ransom  to  provide 

To  the  king  sending ; 
Which  he  neglects  the  while. 
As  from  a  nation  vile, 
Yet,  with  an  angry  smile, 

Their  fall  portending. 

And  turning  to  his  men, 
Quoth  our  brave  Henry  then : 
Though  they  to  one  be  ten. 

Be  not  amazed ; 
Yet  have  we  well  begun. 
Battles  so  bravely  won 
Have  ever  to  the  sun 
By  fame  been  raised. 

And  for  myself,  quoth  he, 
This  my  full  rest  shall  be  ; 
England  ne'er  mourn  for  me 

Nor  more  esteem  me. 
Victor  I  will  remain. 
Or  on  this  earth  lie  slain  ; 
Never  shall  she  sustain 

Loss  to  redeem  me. 

Poitiers  and  Cressy  tell. 

When  most  their  pride  did  swell 

Under  our  swords  they  fell. 

No  less  our  skill  is 
Than  when  our  grandsire  great, 
Claiming  the  regal  seat. 
By  many  a  warlike  feat 

Lopped  the  French  lilies. 

The  Duke  of  York  so  dread 
The  eager  vaward  led  ; 
With  the  main  Henry  sped 

Amongst  his  henchmen. 
Excester  had  the  rear, 
A  braver  man  not  there  ; 
O  Lord  !  how  hot  they  were 

On  the  false  Frenchmen. 

They  now  to  fight  are  gone  ; 
Armor  on  armor  shone ; 
Drum  now  to  drum  did  groan, 

To  hear  was  wonder ; 
That  with  the  cries  they  make 
The  very  earth  did  shake, 
Trumpet  to  trumpet  spake, 

Thunder  to  thunder. 


208 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


Well  it  thine  age  became, 
O  noble  Erpingham  ! 
Which  did  the  signal  aim 

To  our  hid  forces  ; 
When,  from  a  meadow  by 
Like  a  storm  suddenly, 
The  English  archery 

Struck  the  French  horses. 

With  Spanish  yew  so  strong. 
Arrows  a  cloth-yard  long, 
That  like  to  serpents  stung. 

Piercing  the  weather  ; 
None  from  his  fellow  starts. 
But  playing  manly  parts, 
And  like  true  English  hearts. 

Stuck  close  together. 

When  down  their  bows  they  threw. 
And  forth  their  bilboes  drew. 
And  on  the  French  they  flew, 

Not  one  was  tardy  : 
Arms  were  from  shoulders  sent, 
Scalps  to  the  teeth  were  rent ; 
Down  the  French  peasants  went ; 

Our  men  were  hardy. 

This  while  our  noble  king, 
His  broad  sword  brandishing, 
Down  tne  French  host  did  ding. 

As  to  o'erwhelm  it ; 
And  many  a  deep  wound  rent 
His  arms  with  blood  besprent, 
And  many  a  cruel  dent. 

Bruised  his  helmet. 

Glo'ster,  that  duke  so  good 
Nexi  of  the  royal  blood, 
For  famous  England  stood. 

With  his  brave  brother 
Clarence,  in  steel  so  bright, 
Though  but  a  maiden  knight, 
Yet  in  that  furious  fight 

Scarce  such  another. 

Warwick  in  blood  did  wade  , 
Oxford  the  foe  invade. 
And  cruel  slaughter  made. 

Still  as  they  ran  up. 
Suffolk  his  axe  did  ply ; 
Beaumont  and  Willoughby 
Bare  them  right  doughtily, 

Ferrers  and  Fanhope. 

Upon  Saint  Crispin's  day 
Fought  was  this  noble  fray, 
Which  fame  did  not  delay 

To  England  to  carry. 
O,  when  shall  Englishmen 
With  such  acts  fill  a  pen. 
Or  England  breed  again 

Such  a  King  Harry  ? 

Michael  Drayton. 


YE  MARINERS  OF  ENGLAND. 

E  manners  of  England 

That  guard  our  native  seas  ; 

Whose  flag  has  braved  a  thousand  years 

The  battle  and  the  breeze, 

Your  glorious  standard  launch  again 

To  match  another  foe, 

And  sweep  through  the  deep, 

While  the  stormy  winds  do  blow ; 

While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

The  spirits  of  your  fathers 

Shall  start  from  every  wave ; 

For  the  deck  it  was  their  field  of  fame, 

And  ocean  was  their  grave  : 

Where  Blake  and  mighty  Nelson  fell, 

Your  manly  hearts  shall  glow. 

As  ye  sweep  through  the  deep, 

While  the  stormy  winds  do  blow ; 

While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long. 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

Brittannia  needs  no  bulwarks. 

No  towers  along  the  steep  ; 

Her  march  is  o'er  the  mountain-waves. 

Her  home  is  on  the  deep. 

With  thunders  from  her  native  oak. 

She  quells  the  floods  below — 

As  they  roar  on  the  shore, 

When  the  stormy  winds  do  blow  ; 

When  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

The  meteor  flag  of  England 

Shall  yet  terrific  burn  ; 

Till  danger's  troubled  night  depart. 

And  the  star  of  peace  return. 

Then,  then,  ye  ocean-warriors, 

Our  song  and  feast  shall  flow 

To  the  fame  of  your  name, 

When  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow  ; 

When  the  fiery  fight  is  heard  no  more, 

And  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow. 

Thomas  Campbell. 


THE  UNRETURNING  BRAVE. 

aND  Ardennes  waves  above  them  her  green 
leaves, 
Dewy  with  nature's  tear  drops,  as  they  pass 
Grieving.     If  auglit  inanimate  e'er  grieves, 
Over  the  unreturning  brave  ; — alas  ! 
Ere  evening  to  be  trodden  like  the  grass 
Which  now  beneath  them,  but  above  shall  grow 
In  its  next  verdure,  when  this  fiery  mass 
Of  living  valor,  rolling  on  the  foe. 
And  burning  with  high  hope,  shall  moulder  cold  and 
low. 


HEROISM   AND   ADVENTURE. 


209 


Last  noon  beheld  them  full  of  lusty  life, 
Last  eve  in  beauty's  circle  proudly  gay ; 
The  midnight  brought  the  signal-sound  of  strife, 
The  morn  the  marshaling  in  arms— the  day 
Battle's  magnificently  stern  array  ! 
The  thunder-clouds  close  o'er  it,  which  when  rent 
The  earth  is  covered  thick  with  other  clay, 
Which  her  own  clay  shall  cover,  heaped  and  pent. 
Rider  and  horse— friend,  foe — in  one  red  burial  blent ! 

Their  praise  is  hymned  by  loftier  harps  than  mine  ; 
Yet  one  I  would  select  from  that  proud  throng. 
Partly  because  they  blend  me  with  his  Ime, 
And  partly  that  I  did  his  sire  some  wrong. 
And  partly  that  bright  names  will  hallow  song  , 
And  his  was  of  the  bravest,  and  when  showered 
The  death-bolts  deadliest  the  thinned  files  along. 
Even  where  the  thickest  of  war's  tempest  lowered. 
They  reached  no  nobler  breast  than  thine,  young,  gal- 
lant Howard ! 

There  have  been  tears  and  breaking  hearts  for  thee, 
And  mine  were  nothing,  had  I  such  to  give  ; 
But  when  I  stood  beneath  the  fresh  green  tree, 
Which  living  waves  where  thou  didst  cease  to  live. 
And  saw  around  me  the  wide  field  revive 
With  fruits  and  fertile  promise,  and  the  spring 
Come  forth  her  work  of  gladness  to  contrive 
With  all  her  reckless  birds  upon  the  wing, 
I  turned  from  all  she  brought,  to  those  she  could  not 

bring. 

Lord  Byron. 


® 


ALFRED  THE  HARPER. 

ARK  fell  the  night,  the  watch  was  set, 
'1  he  host  was  idly  spread,  . 
The  Danes  around  their  watchfires  met, 
Caroused,  and  fiercely  fed. 

The  chiefs  beneath  a  tent  of  leaves, 

And  Guthrum,  king  of  all, 
Devoured  the  flesh  of  England's  beeves, 

And  laughed  at  England's  fall. 
Each  warrior  proud,  each  Danish  earl, 

In  mail  and  wolf-skin  clad, 
Their  bracelets  white  with  plundered  pearl, 

Their  eyes  with  triumph  mad. 

From  Huber-land  to  Severn-land, 

And  on  to  Tamar  stream. 
Where  Thames  makes  green  the  towery  strand, 

Where  Medway's  waters  gleam — 
With  hands  of  steel  and  mouths  of  flame 

They  raged  the  kingdom  through  ; 
And  where  the  Norseman  sickle  came. 

No  crop  but  hunger  grew. 

They  loaded  many  an  English  horse 

With  wealth  of  cities  fair  ; 
They  dragged  from  many  a  father's  corse 

The  daughter  by  her  hair. 

(14) 


And  English  slaves,  and  gems,  and  gold; 

Were  gathered  round  the  feast ; 
Till  midnight  in  their  woodland  hold. 

Oh  !  ne'er  that  riot  ceased. 

In  stalked  a  warrior  tall  and  rude 

Before  the  strong  sea-kings  ; 
"Ye  lords  and  earls  of  Odin's  brood, 

Without  a  harper  sings. 
He  seems  a  simple  man  and  poor. 

But  well  he  sounds  the  lay ; 
And  well,  ye  Norseman  chiefs,  be  sure. 

Will  ye  the  song  repay." 

In  trod  the  bard  with  keen  cold  look. 

And  glanced  along  the  board. 
That  with  the  shout  and  war-cry  shook 

Of  many  a  Danish  lord. 
But  thirty  brows,  inflamed  and  stem. 

Soon  bent  on  him  their  gaze, 
While  calm  he  gazed ,  as  if  to  learn 

Who  chief  deserved  his  praise. 

Loud  Guthrum  spake — "  Nay,  gaze  not  thus, 

Thou  harper  weak  and  poor  ! 
By  Thor  !  who  bandy  looks  with  us 

Must  worse  than  looks  endure. 
Sing  high  the  praise  of  Denmark's  host, 

High  praise  each  dauntless  earl ; 
The  brave  who  stun  this  English  coast 

With  wars  unceasing  whirl," 

The  harper  slowly  bent  his  head. 

And  touched  aloud  the  string  ; 
Tlien  raised  his  face,  and  boldly  said, 
"Hear  thou  my  lay,  O  king  ! 
High  praise  from  every  mouth  of  man 

To  all  who  boldly  strive, 
Who  fall  where  first  the  fight  began, 

And  ne'er  go  back  alive. 

"  Fill  high  your  cups,  and  swell  the  shout, 

At  famous  Regnar's  name  ! 
Who  sank  his  host  in  bloody  rout, 

When  he  to  Humbercame. 
His  men  were  chased,  his  sons  were  slain, 

And  he  was  left  alone. 
They  bound  him  in  an  iron  chain 

Upon  a  dungeon  stone. 

"  With  iron  links  they  bound  him  fast ; 
With  snakes  they  filled  the  hole, 
That  made  his  flesh  their  long  repast, 
And  bit  into  his  soul. 

"Great  chiefs,  why  sink  In  gloom  your  eyes  ? 

Why  champ  your  teeth  in  pain  ? 
Still  lives  the  song  though  Regnar  dies  ! 

Fill  high  your  cups  again. 
Ye  too,  perchance,  O  Norsemen  lords  1 

Who  fought  and  swayed  so  long, 
Shall  soon  but  live  in  minstrel  words, 

And  owe  your  names  to  soag,. 


210 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


"  This  land  has  graves  by  thousands  more 

Than  that  where  Regnar  lies. 
When  conquests  fade,  and  rule  is  o'er, 

The  sod  must  close  your  eyes. 
Hew  soon,  who  knows  ?    Not  chief,  nor  bard  ; 

And  yet  to  me  'tis  given. 
To  see  your  foreheads  deeply  scarred, 

And  guess  the  doom  of  heaven. 

"  I  may  not  read  or  when  or  how. 

But,  earls  and  kings,  be  sure 
I  see  a  blade  o'er  every  brow. 

Where  pride  now  sits  secure. 
Fill  high  the  cups,  raise  loud  the  strain  ! 

When  chief  and  monarch  fall, 
Their  names  in  song  shall  breathe  again, 

And  thrill  the  feastful  hall." 

Grim  sat  the  chiefs  ;  one  heaved  a  groan, 

And  one  grew  pale  with  dread, 
His  iron  mace  was  grasped  by  one. 

By  one  his  wine  was  shed. 
And  Guthrum  cried,  "  Nay,  bard,  no  more 

We  hear  thy  boding  lay  ; 
Make  drunk  the  song  with  spoil  and  gore  ! 

Light  up  the  joyous  fray  ! " 

"  Quick  throbs  my  brain  " — so  burst  the  song — 

"  To  hear  the  strife  once  more. 
The  mace,  the  axe,  they  rest  too  long  ; 

Earth  cries,  '  My  thirst  is  sore  ! ' 
More  blithely  twang  the  strings  of  bows 

Than  strings  of  harps  in  glee  ; 
Red  wounds  are  lovelier  than  the  rose, 

Or  rosy  lips  to  me. 

"  Oh  !  fairer  than  a  field  of  flowers, 

When  flowers  in  England  grew, 
Would  be  the  battle's  marshaled  powers, 

The  plain  of  carnage  new. 
With  all  its  deaths  before  my  soul 

The  vision  rises  fair ; 
Raise  loud  the  song,  and  drain  the  bowl ! 

I  would  that  I  were  there  ! " 

Loud  rang  the  harp,  the  minstrel's  eye 

Rolled  fiercely  round  the  throng  ; 
It  seemed  two  crashing  hosts  were  nigh, 

Whose  shock  aroused  the  song. 
A  golden  cup  King  Guthrum  gave 

To  him  who  strongly  played  ; 
And  said,  "  I  won  it  from  the  slave 

Who  once  o'er  England  swayed." 

King  Guthrum  cried,  "  'Twas  Alfred's  own ; 

Thy  song  befits  the  brave : 
The  king  who  cannot  guard  his  throne 

Nor  wine  nor  song  shall  have." 
The  minstrel  took  the  goblet  bright, 

And  said,  "  I  drink  the  wine 
To  him  who  owns  by  justest  right 

The  cup  thou  bid'st  be  mine. 


"  To  him,  your  Lord,  oh  shout  ye  all ! 
His  meed  be  deathless  praise  ! 
The  king  who  dares  not  nobly  fall. 
Dies  basely  all  his  days." 

"  The  praise  thou  speak  est,"  Guthrum  said, 

"  With  sweetness  fills  mine  ear ; 
For  Alfred  swift  before  me  fled. 

And  left  me  monarch  here. 
The  royal  coward  never  dared 

Beneath  mine  eye  to  stand. 
Oh,  would  that  now  this  feast  he  shared, 

And  saw  me  rule  his  land  ! " 

Then  stem  the  minstrel  rose,  and  spake. 

And  gazed  upon  the  king — 
"  Not  now  the  golden  cup  I  take. 

Nor  more  to  thee  I  sing. 
Another  day,  a  happier  hour. 

Shall  bring  me  here  again  : 
The  cup  shall  stay  in  Guthrum's  power 

Till  I  demand  it  then." 

The  harper  turned  and  left  the  shed, 

Nor  bent  to  Guthrum's  crown  ; 
And  one  who  marked  his  visage  said 

It  wore  a  ghastly  frown. 
The  Danes  ne'er  saw  that  harper  more, 

For  soon  as  morning  rose. 
Upon  their  camp  King  Alfred  bore, 

And  slew  ten  thousand  foes. 

John  Sterling. 

THE  WILD  HUNTSMAN. 

'HE  Wildgrave  winds  his  bugle-horn. 
To  horse,  to  horse  !  halloo,  halloo ! 
His  fiery  courser  snuffs  tlie  morn, 
Ip"  And  thronging  serfs  their  lord  pursue. 

The  eager  pack,  from  couples  freed. 

Dash  through  the  bush,  the  brier,  the  brake ; 

While  answering  hound,  and  horn,  and  steed. 
The  mountain  echoes  startling  wake. 

The  beams  of  God's  own  hallowed  day 
Had  painted  yonder  spjire  with  gold. 

And,  calling  sinful  man  to  pray, 

Loud,  long,  and  deep  the  bell  had  tolled  : 

But  still  the  Wildgrave  onward  rides  ; 

Halloo,  halloo  !  and,  hark  again  ! 
When,  spurring  from  opposing  sides. 

Two  stranger  horsemen  join  the  train. 

Who  was  each  stranger,  left  and  right. 
Well  may  I  guess,  but  dare  not  tell ; 

The  right-hand  steed  was  silver  white, 
The  left,  the  swarthy  hue  of  hell. 

The  right-hand  horseman,  young  and  fair, 
His  smile  was  like  the  morn  of  May  ; 


HEROISM   AND   ADVENTURE. 


211 


The  left,  from  eye  of  tawny  glare, 
Shot  midnight  lightning's  lurid  ray. 

He  waved  his  huntsman's  cap  on  high, 
Cried,  "Welcome,  welcome,  noble  lord  ! 

What  sport  can  earth,  or  sea,  or  sky, 
To  match  the  princely  chase,  afford  ?  " 

"Cease  thy  loud  bugle's  clanging  knell," 
Cried  the  fair  youth,  with  silver  voice ; 

"And  for  devotion's  choral  swell, 

Exchange  the  rude  unhallowed  noise 

"  To-day  the  ill-omened  chase  forbear, 
Yon  bell  yet  summons  to  the  fane  ; 
To-day  the  warning  spirit  hear, 
To-morrow  thou  mayst  mourn  in  vain.' 

"Away,  and  sweep  the  glades  along  ! " 

The  sable  hunter  hoarse  replies  ; 
"To  muttering  monks  leave  matin-song, 

And  bells,  and  books,  and  mysteries." 

The  Wildgrave  spurred  his  ardent  steed, 
And,  launcliing  forward  with  a  bound, 
"Who,  for  thy  drowsy  priestlike  rede, 

Would  leave  the  jovial  horn  and  hound? 

"Hence  if  our  manly  sport  offend  ! 

With  pious  fools  go  chant  and  pray  ! — 
Well  hast  thou  spoke,  my  dark-browed  friend  ; 
Halloo,  halloo!  and,  hark  away!" 

The  Wildgrave  spurred  his  courser  light. 
O'er  moss  and  moor ;  o'er  holt  and  hill ; 

And  on  the  left,  and  on  the  right, 
Each  stranger  horseman  followed  still. 

Up  springs  from  yonder  tangled  thorn, 

A  stag  more  white  than  mountain  snow ; 
And  louder  rung  the  Wildgrave  s  horn, 
"Hark,  forward,  forward!  holla,  ho!" 

A  heedless  wretch  has  crossed  the  way ; 

He  gasps  the  thundering  hoofs  below ; — 
But,  live  who  can,  or  die  who  may. 
Still,  "  Forward,  forward  !  "  on  they  go. 

See  where  yon  simple  fences  meet, 

A  field  with  autumn's  blessings  crowned; 

See,  prostrate  at  the  Wildgrave  s  feet, 
A  husbandman  with  toil  embrowned  : 

' '  O  mercy,  mercy,  noble  lord  ! 

Spare  the  poor's  pittance,"  was  his  cry, 
"Earned  by  the  sweat  these  brows  have  poured 

In  scorching  hour  of  fierce  July," 

Earnest  the  right  hand  stranger  pleads. 
The  left  still  cheering  to  the  prey  ; 

The  impetuous  Earl  no  warning  heeds. 
But  furious  holds  the  onward  way. 


"Away,  thou  hound!  so  basely  born. 

Or  dread  the  scourge's  echoing  blow  !" — 
Then  loudly  rung  his  bugle-horn, 
"Hark  forward,  forward !  holla,  ho  ! " 

So  said,  so  done  : — A  single  bound 
Clears  the  poor  laborer's  humble  pale  ; 

Wild  follows  man,  and  horse,  and  hound, 
Like  dark  December's  stormy  gale. 

And  man  and  horse,  and  hound  and  horn. 
Destructive  sweep  the  field  along ; 

While,  joying  o'er  the  wasted  corn, 

Fell  famine  marks  the  maddening  throng. 

Again  uproused,  the  timorous  prey 

Scours  moss  and  moor,  and  holt  and  hill; 
Hard  run,  he  feels  his  strength  decay, 
And  trusts  for  life  his  simple  skill. 

Too  dangerous  solitude  appeared  ; 

He  seeks  the  shelter  of  the  crowd  : 
Amid  the  flock's  domestic  herd 

His  harmless  head  he  hopes  to  shroud. 

O'er  moss  and  moor,  and  holt  and  hill. 
His  track  the  steady  bloodhounds  trace ; 

O'er  moss  and  moor,  unwearied  still, 
The  furious  Earl  pursues  the  chase. 

Full  lowly  did  the  herdsman  fall ; — 
"O  spare,  thou  noble  Baron,  spare 
These  herds,  a  widow's  little  all  ; 
These  flocks,  an  orphan's  fleecy  care  !" 

Earnest  the  right-hand  stranger  pleads, 
The  left  still  cheering  to  the  prey  ; 

The  Earl  nor  prayer  nor  pity  heeds. 
But  furious  keeps  the  onward  way. 

"  Unmannered  dog  !  to  stop  my  sport, 
"Vain  were  thy  cant  and  beggar  whine, 
Tliough  human  spirits,  of  thy  sort. 
Were  tenants  of  these  carrion  kine  !  " 

Again  he  winds  his  bugle-horn, 
"  Hark,  forward,  forward,  holla,  ho  !  " 
And  through  the  iierd,  in  ruthless  scorn. 
He  cheers  his  furious  hounds  to  go. 

In  heaps  the  throttled  victims  fall ; 

Down  sinks  their  mangled  herdsman  near ; 
The  murderous  cries  the  stag  appal — 

Again  he  starts,  new- nerved  by  fear. 

Witli  blood  besmeared,  and  white  with  foam. 
While  big  the  tears  of  anguish  pour. 

He  seeivs,  amid  the  forest's  gloom. 
The  humble  hermit's  hallowed  bower. 

But  man  and  horse,  and  horn  and  hound, 

Fast  rattling  on  his  traces  go  ; 
The  sacred  chapel  rung  around 

With,  "Hark  away  !  and  holla,  ho  !  " 


212 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


All  mild,  amid  the  rout  profane, 
The  holy  hermit  poured  his  prayer : 
"Forbear  with  blood  God's  house  to  stain  ; 
Revere  his  altar,  and  forbear  ! 

"The  meanest  brute  has  rights  to  plead, 
Which,  wronged  by  cruelty  or  pride, 
Draw  vengeance  on  the  ruthless  head  : 
Be  warned  at  length,  and  turn  aside." 

Still  the  fair  horseman  anxious  pleads  ; 

Tlie  black,  wild  whooping,  points  the  prey : 
Alas  1  the  Earl  no  warning  heeds. 

But  frantic  keeps  the  forward  way. 

"Holy  or  not,  or  right  or  wrong. 
Thy  altar,  and  its  rites,  I  spurn  ; 
Not  sainted  martyrs'  sacred  song. 

Not  God  himself,  shall  make  me  turn  ! " 

He  spurs  his  horse,  he  winds  his  horn, 
"  Hark  forward,  forward  !  holla,  ho  !  " 
But  off,  on  whirlwind's  pinions  borne,    , 
The  stag,  the  hut,  the  hermit,  go. 

And  horse  and  man,  and  horn  and  hound, 
And  clamor  of  the"  chase,  were  gone  ; 

For  hoofs,  and  howls,  and  bugle  sound, 
A  deadly  silence  reigned  alone. 

Wild  gazed  the  aflTrighted  Earl  around  ; 

He  strove  in  vain  to  wake  his  horn, 
In  vain  to  call :  for  not  a  sound 

Could  from  his  anxious  lips  be  borne. 

He  listens  for  his  trusty  hounds  ; 

No  distant  baying  reached  his  ears  ; 
His  courser,  rooted  to  the  ground, 

The  quickening  spur  unmindful  bears. 

Still  dark  and  darker  frown  the  shades, 
Dark  as  the  darkness  of  the  grave  ; 

And  not  a  sound  the  still  invades, 
Save  what  a  distant  torrent  gave. 

High  o'er  the  sinner's  humbled  head 
At  length  tlie  solemn  silence  broke  ; 

And  from  a  cloud  of  swarthy  red. 
The  awful  voice  of  thunder  spoke. 

"  Oppressor  of  creation  fair  ! 

Apostate  Spirit's  hardened  tool ! 
Scorner  of  God  !    Scourge  of  the  poor ! 
The  measure  of  thy  cup  is  full. 

"Be  chased  forever  through  the  wood  ; 
Forever  roam  the  affrighted  wild  ; 
And  let  thy  fate  instruct  the  proud, 
God's  meanest  creature  is  his  child." 

'Twas  hushed  :  one  flash  of  sombre  glare, 
With  yellow  tinged  the  forests  brown  ; 

Up  rose  the  Wildgrave's  bristling  hair, 
And  horror  chilled  each  nerve  and  bone. 


Cold  poured  the  sweat  in  freezing  rill ; 

A  rising  wind  began  to  sing ; 
And  louder,  louder,  louder  still, 

Brought  storm  and  tempest  on  its  wing. 

Earth  heard  the  call ; — her  entrails  rend  ; 

From  yawning  rifts,  with  many  a  yell, 
Mixed  with  sulphureous  flames,  ascend 

The  misbegotten  dogs  of  hell. 

What  ghastly  huntsman  next  arose, 
Well  may  I  guess,  but  dare  not  tell ; 

His  eye  like  midnight  lightning  glows, 
His  steed  the  swarthy  hue  of  hell. 

The  Wildgrave  flies  o'er  bush  and  thorn, 
With  many  a  shriek  of  helpless  woe  ; 

Behind  him  hound,  and  horse,  and  horn. 
And,  "  Hark  away,  and  holla,  ho  I" 

With  wild  despair's  reverted  eye, 

Close,  close  behind  he  marks  the  throng, 

Wilh  bloody  fangs,  and  eager  cry  ; 
In  frantic  fear  he  scours  along. — 

Still,  still  shall  last  the  dreadful  chase, 
Till  time  itself  shall  have  an  end  ; 

By  day,  they  scour  earth's  caverned  space, 
At  midnight's  witching  hour  ascend.  » 

This  is  the  horn,  and  hound  and  horse, 
That  oft  the  lated  peasant  hears  ; 

Appalled  he  signs  the  frequent  cross, 
When  the  wild  din  invades  his  ears. 

The  wakeful  priest  oft  drops  a  tear 
For  human  pride,  for  human  woe. 
When,  at  his  midnight  mass,  he  hears 
The  infernal  cry  of  "  Holla,  ho  !  " 

Translation  from  Burger,  by 
Sir  Walter  Scott. 


u 


THE  OLD  SERGEANT. 

OME  a  little  nearer,  doctor — thank  you  ;  let 
me  take  the  cup  : 
Draw  your  chair  up — draw  it  closer ;  just 
another  little  sup  ! 
May  be  you  may  think  I'm  better  ;  but  I'm  pretty  well 

used  up — 
Doctor,  you've  done  all  you  could  do,  but  I'm  just  a- 


©' 


gomg  up 


"Feel  my  pulse,  sir;  if  you  want  to,  but  it  ain't  much 

use  to  try  " — 
"Never  say  that,"  said  the  surgeon,  as  he  smotheretl 

down  a  sigh  ; 
"  It  will  never  do,  old  comrade,  for  a  soldier  to  say 

die!" 
"  What  you  say  will  make  no  difference,  doctor,  when 

you  come  to  die." 


HEROISM   AND   ADVENTURE. 


213 


"Doctor,  what  has  been  the  matter?"     "You  were    "Dr,  Austin! — what  ^ay  is  this  ?  "     "  It  Is  Wednesday 


very  faint,  they  say  ; 
You  must  try  to  get  to  sleep  now."     "  Doctor,  have  I 

been  away  ? ' ' 
"Not  that  anybody  knows  of!"     "Doctor — doctor, 

please  to  stay ! 
There  is  something  I  must  tell  you,  and  you  won't 

have  long  to  stay  ! 

"  I  have  got  my  marching  orders,  and  I'm  ready  now 

to  go; 
Doctor,  did  you  say  I  fainted? — but  it  couldn't  have 

been  so, 
For  as  sure  as  I'm  a  sergeant,  and  was  wounded  at 

Shiloh, 
I've  this  very  night  been  back  there,  on  the  old  field  of 

Shiloh  ! 

"This  is  all  that   I   remember:    The  last  time  the 

lighter  came, 
And  the  lights  had  all  been  lowered,  and  the  noises 

much  the  same, 
He  had  not  been  gone  five  minutes  before  something 

called  my  name : 
'  Orderly  sergeant — Robert  Burton  !  '—just  that 

way  it  called  my  name. 

"And  I  wondered  who  could  call  me  so  distinctly  and 

so  slow, 
Knew  it   couldn't  be  the  lighter,  he  could  not  have 

spoken  so. 
And  I  tried  to  answer,  '  Here,  sir ! '  but  I  couldn't  make 

it  go  ; 
For  I  couldn't  move  a  muscle  and  I  couldn't  make  it  go. 

"  Then  I  thought :  It's  all  a  nightmare,  all  a  humbug 

and  a  bore  ; 
Just  another  foolish   fancy — and   it   won't  come  any 

more  ; 


night,  you  know." 
"  Yes — to-morrow  will  be  New  Year's,  and  a  rigiit  good 

time  below ! 
What  time  is  it.    Dr.    Austin?"     "Nearly    twelve.'' 

"Then  don't  you  go  ! 
Can  it  be  that  all  this  happened — all  this — not  an  hour 

ago! 

"There  was  where  the  gunboats  opened  on  the  dark 

opposing  host ; 
And  where  Webster  semi-circled  his  last  guns  upon  the 

coast ; 
There  were  still  the  two  log-houses,  just  the  same,  or 

else  their  ghost — 
And  the  same  old  transport  came  and  took  me  over — 

or  its  ghost ! 

"  And  the  old  field  lay  before  me,  all  deserted,  far  and 

wide : 
There  was  where  they  fell  on  Prentiss — there  McCler- 

nand  met  the  tide  ; 
There  was  where  stern  Sherman  rallied,  and  where 

Hurlbut's  heroes  died — 
Lower  down,  where  'Wallace  charged  them,  and  kept 

charging  till  he  died.       ^ 

"There  was  where  Lew  Wallace  showed  them  he  was 
of  the  canny  kin, 

There  was  where  old  Nelson  thundered,  and  where 
Rousseau  waded  m  ; 

There  McCook  sent  'em  to  breakfast,  and  we  all  be- 
gan to  win — 

There  was  where  the  grape-shot  took  me,  just  as  we 
began  to  win. 

"  Now,  a  siiroud  of  snow  and  silence  over  everj'thing 

was  sprt:ad  ; 
And  but  fur  this  old  blue  mantle  and  the  old  hat  on  my 

head. 


But  it  came,  sir,  notwithstanding,  just  the  same  way  as    i  ^,,,,„]  j  „^t  have  even  doubted,  to  this  moment,  I  w,n 


before 


dead- 


♦  Orderly     sergeant-Robert      Burton  !  '-even  ;  ^ox  my  footsteps  were  as  silent  as  the  snow  upon  the 
louder  than  before.  dead  ! 

"Death  and  silence! — Death  and  silence!  all  around 

me  as  I  sped ! 
And  behold,  a  mighty  tower,  as  if  builded  to  the  dead. 
To  the  heaven  of  the  heavens  lifted  up  its  mighty 

head. 
Till  the  stars  and  stripes  of  heaven  all  seemed  waving 

from  its  head ! 

"  Round  and  mighty  based  it  towered  up  into  the  infi- 
nite— 

And  I  knew  no  mortal  mason  could  have  built  a  shaft 
so  bright ; 

For  it  shone  like  solid  sunshine  ;  and  a  winding  stair  of 
light 

Wound  around  it  and  around  it  till  it  wound  clear  out 
of  sight  1 


"That  is  all  that  I  remember,  till  a  sudden  burst  of 
light. 

And  I  stood  beside  the  river,  where  we  stood  that  Sun- 
day night, 

Waiting  to  be  ferried  over  to  the  dark  b'ufis  opposite, 

When  the  river  was  perdition,  and  all  hell  was  oppo- 
site ! — 

"And  the  same  old  palpitation  came  again  in  all  its 

power, 
And  I  heard  a  bugle  sounding,  as  from  some  celestial 

tower ; 
And  the  same  mysterious  voice    said :     '  It  is  the 

eleventh  hour  ! 
Orderly  sergeant — Robert  Burton — it  is  the 

eleventh  hour!' 


214 


CROWN   JEWELS. 


"And,  behold,  as  I  approached  it — with  a  rapt  and 

dazzled  stare — 
Thinking  that  I  saw  old  comrades  just  ascending;  the 

great  stair — 
Suddenly  the  solemn  challenge  broke  of—"  Halt ! '  and 

*  Who  goes  there  ! ' 
'  I'm  a  fnend,'  I  said,  '  if  you  are  ! '  '  Then  advance, 

sir,  to  the  stair  ! ' 

"  I  advanced  !    That  sentry,  Doctor,  was  Elijah  Ballan- 

tyne  ! 
First  of  all  to  fall  on  Monday,  after  we  had  formed  the 

line ! 
'Welcome,  my  old  Sergeant,  welcome  !    Welcome  by 

that  countersign  ! ' 
And  he  pointed  to  the  scar  there,  under  this  old  cloak 

of  mine. 

"  As  he  grasped  my  hand  I  shuddered,  thinking  only 
of  the  grave  ; 

But  he  smiled  and  pointed  upward,  with  a  bright  and 
bloodless  glaive  : 

'  That's  the  way,  sir,  to  Headquarters.'  '  What  Head- 
quarters ? '     'Of  the  Brave  ! ' 

'  But  the  great  tower  ? '  '  That  was  builded  of  the  great 
deeds  of  the  brave  ! ' 

"Then  a  sudden  shame  came  o'er  me  at  his  uniform  of 

light : 
At  my  own  so  old  and  battered,  and  at  his  so  new  and 

bright ; 
*Ah!'  said  he,  'you  have  forgotten  the  new  uniform 

to-night ! 
'Hurry  back — you  must  be  here  at  just  twelve  o'clock 

to-night !' 

"And  the  next  thing  I  remember,  you  were  sitting 

there  and  I 

Doctor — did  you  hear  a  footstep  ?     Hark  ! — God  bless 

you  all !     Good  bye  ! 
Doctor,  please  to  give  my  musket  and  my  knapsack, 

when  I  die, 
To  my  son — my  son  that's  coming — he  won't  get  here 

till  I  die ! 

"  Tell  him  his  old  father  blessed  him — as  he  never  did 

before — 
And  to  carry  that  old  musket" Hark  !  a  knock 

is  at  the  door  ! 

" Till  the  Union  " See  !  it  opens  ! "Father  ! 

father !  speak  once  more  ! " 
"  Bless  you  " — gasped  the  old  gray  sergeant.     And  he 

lay  and  said  no  more  ! 

FORCEVTHE  WiLLSON. 


WRECK  OF  "THE  GRACE  OF  SUTHERLAND. 


U 


'E'.S  a  rare  man. 

Our  parson  ;  half  a  head  above  us  all." 
"That's  a  great  gift,  and  notable,"  .said  I. 
"  Ay,  Sir ;  and  when  he  was  a  younger  man 
He  went  out  in  the  life-boat  very  oft, 


Before  '  The  Grace  of  Sunderland '  was  wrecked. 
He's  never  been  his  own  man  since  that  hour ; 
For  there  were  thirty  men  aboard  of  her, 
Anigh  as  close  as  you  are  now  to  me, 
And  ne'er  a  one  was  saved. 

' '  They're  lying  now, 
With  two  small  children,  in  a  row :  the  church 
And  yard  are  full  of  seamen's  graves,  and  few 
Have  any  names. 

"She  bumped  upon  the  reef; 
Our  parson,  my  young  son,  and  several  more 
Were  lashed  together  with  a  two-inch  rope, 
And  crept  along  to  her  •  their  mates  ashore 
Ready  to  haul  them  in.     The  gale  was  high, 
The  sea  was  all  a  boiling  seething  froth, 
And  God  Almighty's  guns  were  going  off, 
And  the  land  trembled. 

"  When  she  took  the  ground, 
She  went  to  pieces  like  a  lock  of  hay 
Tossed  from  a  pitchfork.     Ere  it  came  to  that. 
The  captain  reeled  on  deck  with  two  small  things, 
One  in  each  arm — his  little  lad  and  lass. 
Their  hair  was  long  and  blew  before  his  face, 
Or  else  we  thought  he  had  been  saved  ;  he  fell. 
But  held  them  fast.     The  crew,  poor  luckless  souls  ! 
The  breakers  licked  them  off,  and  some  were  crushed, 
Some  swallowed  in  the  yeast,  some  flung  up  dead, 
The  dear  breath  beaten  out  of  them  :  not  one 
Jumped  from  the  wreck  upon  the  reef  to  catch 
The  hands  that  strained  to  reach,  but  tumbled  back 
With  eyes  wide  open.     But  the  captain  lay 
And  clung — the  only  man  alive.     They  prayed — 
'  For  God's  sake,  captain,  throw  the  children  here  ! ' 
'  Throw  them  ! '  our  parson  cried  ;  and  then  she  struck 
And  then  he  threw  one,  a  pretty  two  years'  child. 
But  the  gale  dashed  him  on  the  slippery  verge. 
And  down  he  went.    They  say  they  heard  him  cry. 

"  Then  he  rose  up  and  took  the  other  One, 
And  all  our  men  reached  out  their  hungry  arms. 
And  cried  out,  '  Throw  her,  throw  her  ! '  and  he  did. 
He  threw  her  right  against  the  parson's  breast. 
And  all  at  once  a  sea  broke  over  them. 
And  they  that  saw  it  from  the  shore  have  said 
It  struck  the  wreck,  and  piecemeal  scattered  it, 
Just  as  a  woman  might  the  lump  of  salt 
That  'twixt  her  hands  into  the  kneading-pan 
She  breaks  and  crumbles  on  her  rising  bread. 

"We  hauled  our  men  in  :  two  of  them  were  dead- 
The  sea  had  beaten  them,  their  heads  hung  down  • 
Our  parson's  arms  were  empty,  for  the  wave 
Had  torn  away  the  pretty,  pretty  lamb ; 
We  often  see  him  stand  beside  her  grave  : 
But  'twas  no  fault  of  his,  no  fault  of  his." 

Jean  Ingelow. 


HEROISM   AND   ADVENTURE. 


215 


ill: 


GEORGE  NIDIVER. 

EN  have  done  brave  deeds, 

And  bards  have  sung  them  well ; 
of  good  George  Nidiver 
Now  a  tale  will  tell. 


In  Californian  mountains 

A  hunter  bold  was  he  : 
Keen  his  eye  and  sure  his  aim 

As  any  you  should  see. 

A  little  Indian  boy 

Followed  him  everywhere, 
Eager  to  share  the  hunter's  joy, 

The  hunter's  meal  to  share. 

And  when  the  bird  or  deer 

Fell  by  the  hunter's  skill, 
The  boy  was  always  near 

To  help  with  right  good-will. 

One  day  as  through  the  cleft 
Between  two  mountains  steep. 

Shut  in  both  right  and  left, 
Their  questing  way  to  keep. 

They  see  two  grizzly  bears, 
With  hunger  fierce  and  fell. 

Rush  at  them  unawares 

Right  down  the  narrow  dell. 

The  boy  turned  round  with  screams, 
And  ran  with  terror  wild  : 

One  of  the  pair  of  savage  beasts 
Pursued  the  shrieking  child. 

The  hunter  raised  his  gun — 
He  knew  one  charge  was  all — 


And  through  the  boy's  pursuing  foe 
He  sent  his  only  ball. 

The  other  on  George  Nidiver 
Came  on  with  dreadful  pace  :    . 

The  hunter  stood  unarmed, 
And  met  him  face  to  face. 

I  say  unarmed  he  stood  : 
Against  those  frightful  paws 

The  rifle  butt,  or  club  of  wood, 
Could  stand  no  more  than  straws. 

George  Nidiver  stood  still, 
And  looked  him  in  the  face  : 

The  wild  beast  stopped  amazed. 
Then  came  with  slackening  pare. 

Still  firm  the  hunter  stood, 
Although  his  heart  beat  high: 

Again  the  creature  stopped, 
And  gazed  with  wondering  eye. 

The  hunter  met  his  gaze. 

Nor  yet  an  inch  gave  way  ; 
The  bear  turned  slowly  round. 

And  slowly  moved  away. 

What  thoughts  were  in  his  mind 

It  would  be  hard  to  spell : 
What  thoughts  were  in  George  Nidiver, 

I  rather  guess  than  tell. 

But  sure  that  rifle's  aim, 
Swift  choice  of  generous  part. 

Showed  in  its  passing  gleam 
The  depths  of  a  brave  heart 


SEH  PICTURES. 


HOW'S  MY  BOY? 

O,  sailor  of  the  sea  ! 
How's  my  boy — my 

boy?" 
"What's   your   boy's 

name,  good  wife, 
And  in  what  ship  sailed 

he?" 

"My  boy  John — 
He  that  went  to  sea — 
What  care  I  for  the  ship, 

sailor? 
My  boy's  my  boy  to  me. 

"You    come    back   from 

sea, 
And  not  know  my  John  ? 
I  might  as  well  have  asked  some  landsman, 
Yonder  down  in  the  town. 
There's  not  a  soul  in  all  the  parish 
But  knows  my  John. 

"  How's  my  boy — my  boy  ? 
And  unless  you  let  me  know 
I'll  swear  you  are  no  sailor, 
Blue  jacket  or  no — 

"  Brass  buttons  or  no,  sailor, 

Anchor  and  crown  or  no — 

Sure  his  ship  was  the  'Jolly  Briton  '  " — 
"  Speak  low,  woman,  speak  low  ! " 

"  And  why  should  I  speak  low,  sailor, 

About  my  own  boy  John? 

If  I  was  loud  as  I  am  proud 

I'd  sing  him  over  the  town  ! 

Why  should  I  speak  low,  sailor?" — 
"  That  good  ship  went  down." 

"  How's  my  boy — my  boy  ? 
What  care  I  for  the  ship,  sailor — 
I  was  never  aboard  her. 
Be  she  afloat  or  be  she  aground, 

"Sinking  or  swimming,  I'll  be  bound 

Her  owners  can  afford  her  ! 

T  say,  how's  my  John  ?  " — 
"  Every  man  on  board  went  down, 

Every  man  aboard  her." 

"  How's  my  boy — my  boy  ? 
What  care  I  for  the  men,  sailor  ? 
I'm  not  their  mother — 
How's  my  boy — my  boy? 
Tell  me  of  him  and  no  other ! 
How's  my  boy — my  boy  ? " 

Sydney  Dobkll. 


ALL'S  WELL 

©ESERTED  by  the  waning  moon, 
When  skies  proclaim  night's  cheerless  noon. 
On  tower,  or  fort,  or  tented  ground 
The  sentry  walks  his  lonely  round  ; 
And  should  a  footstep  haply  stray 
Where  caution  marks  the  guarded  way, 
"Who  goes  there  ?  Stranger,  quickly  tell !  " 
"Afriend!"    "Theword?"    "  Good-night ;"  all's 
well. 

Or,  sailing  on  the  midnight  deep, 
When  weary  messmates  soundly  sleep. 
The  careful  watch  patrols  the  deck, 
To  guard  the  ship  from  foes  or  wreck  •, 
And  while  his  thoughts  oft  homewards  veer, 
Some  friendly  voice  salutes  his  ear — 
What  cheer?  Brother,  quickly  tell ; 
Above— below."     "Good-night;"  all's  well. 

Thomas  Dibdin. 

THE  SEA-BIRD'S  SONG. 

N  the  deep  is  the  mariner's  danger, 
On  the  deep  is  the  mariner's  death  ; 
Wiio  to  fear  of  the  tempest  a  stranger 
Sees  the  last  bubble  burst  of  his  breath? 
'Tis  the  sea-bird,  sea-bird,  sea-bird, 

Lone  looker  on  despair; 
The  sea-bird,  sea-bird,  sea-bird. 
The  only  witness  there. 

Who  watches  their  course  who  so  mildly 

Careen  to  the  kiss  of  the  breeze? 
Who  lists  to  their  shrieks  who  so  wildly 

Are  clasped  in  the  arms  of  the  seas? 

Who  hovers  on  high  o'er  the  lover. 
And  her  who  has  clung  to  his  neck? 

Whose  wing  is  the  wing  that  can  cover 
With  its  shadow  the  foundering  wreck? 

My  eye  in  the  light  of  the  billow, 
My  wing  on  the  wake  of  the  wave, 

I  shall  take  to  my  breast  for  a  pillow 
The  shroud  of  the  fair  and  the  brave. 

My  foot  on  the  iceberg  has  lighted. 

When  hoarse  the  wild  winds  veer  about ; 
My  eye  when  the  bark  is  benighted. 
Sees  the  lamp  of  the  light  house  go  out. 
I'm  the  sea-bird,  sea-bird,  sea-bird, 

Lone  looker  on  despair. 
The  sea-bird,  sea-bird,  sea-bird, 
The  only  witness  there. 

John  G.  C.  Brainard. 


(216) 


what  ship  saii 


'  ^  hoy  John- 


son, 

r!>:?.::r1c?;3  ncx)n, 


ly  voice  salutes  his  ear — 
"■  r.i  r,>hf-r,  quickly  leU ; 

Jood-Qigbt;"  all's  well. 

OiRD'S  SONG. 


•  breeze?  • 
ks  who  so  wildly 
s  of  the  se.13? 


;^vcry  u- 


veer  about ; 
..-iihted, 
^ht  house  go  o'jt. 
:,  -.ca-bird   ■■-:■  '•'-'' 
on  desp: 


SEA   PICTURES. 


210 


THE  LIGHT-HOUSE. 

'HE  scene  was  more  beautiful  far  to  the  eye, 
Than  if  day  in  its  pride  had  arrayed  it : 
The  land-breeze  blew  mild,    and  the  azure, 
'f'  arched  sky 

Looked  pure  as  the  spirit  that  made  it : 
The  murmur  rose  soft,  as  I  silently  gazed 
On  the  shadowy  waves'  playful  motion, 
From  the  dim  distant  hill,  'till  the  li.^ht-house  blazed 
Like  a  star  in  the  midst  of  the  ocean. 

No  longer  the  joy  of  the  sailor-boy's  breast 

Was  heard  in  his  wildly-breathed  numbers  ; 
The  sea-bird  had  flown  to  her  wave-girdled  nest. 

The  fisherman  sunk  to  his  slumbers  : 
One  moment  I  looked  from  the  hill's  gentle  slope, 

All  hushed  was  the  billows'  commotion. 
And  o'er  them  the  light-house  looked  lovely  as  hope — 

That  star  of  life's  tremulous  ocean. 

The  time  is  long  past,  and  the  scene  is  afar, 

Yet  when  my  head  rests  on  its  pillow, 
Will  memory  sometimes  rekindle  the  star, 

That  blazed  on  the  breast  of  the  billow  : 
In  life's  closing  hour,  when  the  trembling  soul  flies, 

And  death  stills  the  heart's  last  emotion  ; 
Oh,  then  may  the  seraph  of  mercy  arise, 

Like  a  star  on  eternity's  ocean  ! 

Thomas  Moore. 


A  WET  SHEET  AND  A  FLOWING  SEA. 


WET  sheet  and  a  flowing  sea, 
A  wind  that  follows  fast, 
And  fills  the  white  and  rustling  sail, 
And  bends  the  gallant  mast ; 
And  bends  the  gallant  mast,  my  boys, 

While,  like  the  eagle  free. 
Away  the  good  ship  flies,  and  leaves 
Old  England  on  the  lee. 

Oh,  for  a  soft  and  gentle  wind  ! 

I  heard  a  fair  one  cry  ; 
But  give  to  me  the  snoring  breeze, 

And  white  waves  heaving  high  ; 
And  white  waves  heaving  iiigh,  my  boys, 

The  good  ship  tight  and  free — 
The  world  of  waters  is  our  home. 

And  merry  men  are  we. 

There's  tempest  in  yon  horned  moon, 

And  lightning  in  yon  cloud  : 
And  hark  the  music,  mariners  1 

The  wind  is  piping  loud  : 
The  wind  is  piping  loud,  my  boys, 

The  lightning  flashing  free — 
While  the  hollow  oak  our  palace  is. 

Our  heritage  the  sea. 

Allan  Cunningham. 


1^ 


THE  MINUTE-GUN. 

HEN  in  the  storm  on  Albion's  coast. 
The  night-watch  guards  his  weary  post, 

From  thoughts  of  danger  free. 
He  marks  some  vessel's  dusky  form. 
And  hears,  amid  the  howling  storm, 
The  minute-gun  at  sea. 

Swift  on  the  shore  a  hardy  few 

The  life-boat  man  with  a  gallant  crew 

And  dare  the  dangerous  wave ; 
Through  the  wild  surf  they  cleave  their  way. 
Lost  in  the  foam,  nor  know  dismay. 

For  they  go  the  crew  to  save. 

But  O,  what  rapture  fills  each  breast 
Of  the  hopeless  crew  of  the  ship  distressed  ! 
Then,  landed  safe,  what  joy  to  tell 
Of  all  the  dangers  that  befell  1 
Then  is  heard  no  more, 
By  the  watch  on  shore. 
The  minute-gun  at  sea. 

R.  S.  Sharpk. 


TWILIGHT  AT  SEA. 

'HE  twilight  hours,  like  birds,  flew  by, 
As  lightly  and  as  free. 
Ten  thousand  stars  were  in  the  sky. 

Ten  thousand  on  the  sea  ; 
For  every  wave,  with  dimpled  face. 

That  leaped  upon  the  air. 
Had  caught  a  star  in  its  embrace, 
And  held  it  trembling  there. 

Amelia  B.  Welby. 


OCEAN. 


Af^  REAT  Ocean  !  strongest  of  creation's  sons, 
|(®1     Unconquerable,  unreposed,  untired, 
V4/     That  rolled  the  wild,  profound,  eternal  bass 
f        In  nature's  anthem,  and  made  music  such 

As  pleased  the  ear  of  God  !  original, 

Unmarred,  unfaded  work  of  Deity  I 

And  unburlesqued  by  mortal's  puny  skill ; 

From  age  to  age  enduring,  and  unchanged, 

Majestical,  inimitable,  vast, 

Loud  uttering  satire,  day  and  night,  on  each 

Succeeding  race,  and  little  pompous  work 

Of  man  ;  unfallen,  religious,  holy  sea! 

Thou  bowedst  thy  glorious  head  to  none,  fearedst 
none, 

Heardst  none,  to  none  didst  honor,  but  to  God 

Thy  Maker,  only  worthy  to  receive 

Thy  great  obeisance. 

Robert  Pollok. 


220 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


llJ 


THE  TEMPEST. 

E  were  crowded  in  the  cabin, 

Not  a  soul  would  dare  to  sleep — 
It  was  midnight  on  the  waters 
And  a  storni  was  on  the  deep. 

'Tis  a  fearful  thing  in  winter 
To  be  shattered  by  the  blast, 

And  to  hear  the  rattling  trumpet 
Thunder,  "  Cut  away  the  mast !  "    . 

So  we  shuddered  there  in  silence — 
For  the  stoutest  held  his  breath, 

While  the  hungry  sea  was  roaring. 
And  the  breakers  talked  with  death. 


As  thus  we  sat  in  darkness, 
Each  one  busy  in  his  prayers, 
"We  are  lost !  "  the  captain  shouted 
As  he  staggered  down  tlie  stairs. 

But  his  little  daughter  whispered. 
As  she  took  his  icy  hand, 
"  Is  n't  God  upon  the  ocean 

Just  the  same  as  on  the  land  ?  " 

Then  we  kissed  the  little  maiden, 

And  we  spoke  in  better  cheer. 
And  we  anchored  safe  in  harbor 

When  the  morn  was  shining  clear. 

James  Thomas  Fields. 


THE  BAY  OF  BISCAY. 

OUD  roared  the  dreaded  thunder, 
The  rain  a  deluge  showers. 
The  clouds  were  rent  asunder 
By  lightning's  vivid  powers  ; 
The  night  both  drear  and  dark, 
Our  poor  devoted  bark, 
Till  next  day,  there  she  lay. 
In  the  Bay  of  Biscay,  O  ! 

Now  dashed  upon  the  billow, 
Her  opening  timbers  creak, 
Each  fears  a  watery  pillow, 

None  stops  the  dreadful  leak  ; 
To  cling  to  slippery  shrouds 
Each  breathless  seaman  crowds. 
As  she  lay,  till  the  day, 
In  the  Bay  of  Biscay,  O  ! 

At  length  the  wished-for  morrow 

Broke  through  the  hazy  sky. 
Absorbed  in  silent  sorrow, 

Each  heaved  a  bitter  sigh  ; 
The  dismal  wreck  to  view 
Struck  horror  to  the  crew. 
As  she  lay,  on  that  day. 
In  the  Bay  of  Biscay,  O  ! 


Her  yielding  timbers  sever. 

Her  pitchy  seams  are  rent. 
When  Heaven,  all  bounteous  ever, 

Its  boundless  mercy  sent — 
A  sail  in  sight  appears  ! 
We  hail  her  with  three  cheers  ; 
Now  we  sail,  with  the  gale. 
From  the  Bay  of  Biscay,  O  I 

Andrew  Cherry. 


THE  SEA-LIMITS. 

ONSIDER  the  sea's  listless  chime  ; 
Time's  self  it  is  made  audible, — 
The  murmur  of  the  earth  s  own  shell, 
Secret  continuance  sublime 
Is  the  era's  end.     Our  sight  may  pass 
No  furlong  farther.     Since  time  was, 
This  sound  hath  told  the  lapse  of  time. 

No  quiet  which  is  death's, — it  hath 

The  mournfulness  of  ancient  life, 

Enduring  always  at  dull  strife. 
As  the  world's  heart  of  rest  and  wrath. 

Its  painful  pulse  is  on  the  sands. 

Lost  utterly,  the  whole  sky  stands 
Gray  and  not  known  along  its  path. 

Listen  alone  beside  the  sea, 

Listen  alone  among  the  woods  ; 

Those  voices  of  twin  solitudes 
Shall  have  one  sound  alike  to  tliee. 

Hark  where  the  murmurs  of  thronged  men 

Surge  and  sink  back  and  surge  again, — 
Still  the  one  voice  of  wave  and  tree. 

Gather  a  shell  from  the  strewn  beach. 

And  listen  at  its  lips  ;  they  sigh 

The  same  desire  and  mystery. 
The  echo  of  the  whole  sea's  speech. 

And  all  mankind  is  thus  at  heart 

Not  anything  but  what  thou  art ; 
And  earth,  sea,  man,  are  all  in  each. 

Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti. 


GRANDEUR  OF  THE  OCEAN. 

HE  most  fearful  and  impressive  exhibitions  of 
power  known  to  our  globe,  belong  to  the  ocean. 
The  volcano,  with  its  ascending  flame  and  fall- 
Y  ing  torrents  of  fire,  and  the  earthquake,  whose 
footstep  is  on  the  ruin  of  cities,  are  circumscribed  in 
the  desolating  range  of  their  visitations.  But  the  ocean, 
when  it  once  rouses  itself  in  its  chainless  strength, 
shakes  a  thousand  shores  with  its  storm  and  thunder. 
Navies  of  oak  and  iron  are  tossed  in  mockery  from  its 
crest,  and  armaments,  manned  by  the  strength  and 
courage  of  millions,  perish  among  its  bubbles. 


SEA  PICTURES. 


221 


The  avalanche,  shaken  from  its  glittering  steep,  if  it 
roll  to  the  bosom  of  the  earth,  melts  away,  and  is  lost 
in  vapor  ;  but  if  it  plunge  into  the  embrace  of  the  ocean, 
this  mountain  mass  of  ice  and  hail  is  borne  about  for 
ages  in  tumult  and  terror  ;  it  is  the  drifting  monument 
of  the  ocean's  dead.  The  tempest  on  land  is  impeded 
by  forests,  and  broken  by  mountains  ;  but  on  the  plain 
of  the  deep  it  rushes  unresisted  ;  and  when  its  strength 
is  at  last  spent,  ten  thousand  giant  waves  still  roll  its 
terrors  onward. 

The  mountain  lake  and  the  meadow  stream  are  in- 
habited only  by  the  timid  prey  of  the  angler ;  but  the 
ocean  is  the  home  of  the  leviathan— his  ways  are  in  the 
mighty  deep.  The  glittering  pebble  and  the  rainbow- 
tinted  shell,  which  the  returning  tide  has  left  on  the 
shore,  and  the  watery  gem  which  the  pearl-diver 
reaches  at  the  peril  of  his  life,  are  all  that  man  can  filch 
from  the  treasures  of  the  sea.  The  groves  of  coral 
which  wave  over  its  pavements,  and  the  halls  of  amber 
which  glow  in  its  depths,  are  beyond  his  approaches, 
save,  when  he  goes  down  there  to  seek,  amid  their  si- 
lent magnificence,  his  burial  monument. 

The  islands,  the  continents,  the  shores  of  civilized 
and  savage  realms,  the  capitals  of  kings,  are  worn  by 
time,  washed  away  by  the  wave,  consumed  by  the 
flame,  or  sunk  by  the  earthquake  ;  but  the  ocean  still 
remains,  and  still  rolls  on  in  the  greatness  of  its  una- 
bated strength.  Over  the  majesty  of  its  form  and  the 
marvel  of  its  might,  time  and  disaster  have  no  power. 
Such  as  creation's  dawn  beheld,  it  rolleth  now. 

The  vast  clouds  of  vapor  which  roll  up  from  its  bo- 
som, float  away  to  encircle  the  globe;  on  distant 
mountains  and  deserts  they  pour  out  their  watery  trea- 
sures, which  gather  themselves  again  in  streams  and 
torrents,  to  return,  with  exhulting  bounds,  to  their  par- 
ent ocean.  These  are  the  messengers  which  proclaim 
in  every  land  the  exhaustless  resources  of  the  sea  ;  but 
it  is  reserved  for  those  who  go  down  in  ships,  and  who 
do  business  on  the  great  waters,  to  see  the  works  of  the 
Lord  and  his  wonders  in  the  deep. 

Let  one  go  up  upon  deck  in  the  middle  watch  of  a 
still  night,  with  naught  above  him  but  the  silent  and 
solemn  skies,  and  naught  around  and  beneath  him  but 
an  interminable  waste  of  waters,  and  with  the  convic- 
tion that  there  is  but  a  plank  between  him  and  eternity, 
a  feeling  of  loneliness,  solitude,  and  desertion,  mingled 
with  a  sentiment  of  reverence  for  the  vast,  mysterious 
and  unknown,  will  come  upon  him  with  a  power,  all 
unknown  before,  and  he  might  stand  for  hours  en- 
tranced in  reverence  and  tears. 

Man,  also,  has  made  the  ocean  the  theatre  of  his 
power.  The  ship  in  which  he  rides  that  element,  is 
one  of  the  highest  triumphs  of  his  skill.  At  first,  this 
floating  fabric  was  only  a  frail  bark,  slowly  urged  by 
the  laboring  oar.  The  sail,  at  length,  arose  and  spread 
its  wings  to  the  wind.  Still  he  had  no  power  to  direct 
his  course  when  the  lofty  promontory  sunk  from  sight, 
or  the  orbs  above  him  were  lost  in  clouds.  But  the  se- 
cret of  the  magnet  is,  at  length,  revealed  to  him,  and 


his  needle  now  settles,  with  a  fixedness  which  love  has 
stolen  as  the  symbol  of  its  constancy,  to  tlie  polar  star. 
Now,  however,  he  can  dispense  even  with  sail,  and 
wind,  and  flowmg  wave.     He  constructs  and  propels 
his  vast  engines  of  flame  and  vapor,  and,  through  the 
solitude  of  the  sea,  as  over  the  solid  land,  goes  thunder- 
ing on  his  track.     On  the  ocean,  too,  thrones  have 
been  lost  and  won.     On  the  fate  of  Actium  was  sus- 
pended the  empire  of  the  world.  In  the  gult  of  Salamis, 
the  pnde  of  Pei  sia  found  a  grave  ;  and  the  crescent  set 
forever  in  the  waters  of  Navarino  ;  while,  at  Trafalgar 
and  the  Nile,  nations  held  their  breath 
"As  each  gun 
From  its  adamantine  lips. 
Spread  a  death-shade  round  the  ships 
Like  the  hurricane's  eclipse 
Of  the  sun." 
But,  of  all  the  wonders  appertaining  to  the  ocean,  the 
greatest,  perhaps,  is  its  transfonning  power  on  man.  It 
unravels  and  weaves  anew  the  web  of  his  moral  and 
social  being.     It  invests  him  with  feelings,  associations, 
and  habits,  to  which  he  has  been  an  entire  stranger. 
It  breaks  up  the  sealed  fountain  of  his  nature,  and  lifts 
his  soul  into  features  prominent  as  the  cliffs  which  bee- 
tle over  its  surge. 

Once  the  adopted  child  of  the  ocean,  he  can  never 
bring  back  his  entire  sympathies  to  land.  He  will  still 
move  in  his  dreams  over  that  vast  waste  of  waters,  still 
bound  in  exultation  and  triumph  through  its  foaming 
billows.  All  the  other  realities  of  life  will  be  compara- 
tively tame,  and  he  will  sigh  for  his  tossing  element,  as 
the  caged  eagle  for  the  roar  and  arrowy  light  of  his 

mountain  cataract. 

Walter  Colton. 


THE  GREAT  DEEP. 

|EAUTIFUL,  sublime,  and  glorious  ; 
Mild,  majestic,  foaming,  free — 
Over  time  itself  victorious. 
Image  of  eternity  ! 

Sun  and  moon  and  stars  shine  o'er  thee, 

See  thy  surface  ebb  and  flow, 
Yet  attempt  not  to  explore  thee 

In  thy  soundless  depths  below. 

Whether  morning's  splendors  steep  thee 
With  the  rainbow's  glowing  grace. 

Tempests  rouse,  or  navies  sweep  thee, 
'Tis  but  for  a  moment's  space. 

Earth — her  valleys  and  her  mountains, 

Mortal  man's  behests  obey  ; 
The  unfathomable  fountains 

ScofT.his  search  and  scorn  his  sway. 

Such  art  thou,  stupendous  ocean  ! 

But,  if  overwhelmed  by  thee. 
Can  we  think,  without  emotion, 

What  must  thy  Creator  be  ? 

Bernard  Barton. 


222 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


ON  THE  BEACH. 

'HE  sun  is  low,  as  ocean's  flow 

Heaves  to  the  strand  in  breakers  white  ; 
And  sea-birds  seek  their  wild  retreat 
"^       Where  cliffs  reflect  the  fading  light. 

The  billow  gleams  in  parting  beams, 
And  sighs  upon  the  lonely  shore  , 

Whilst  childhood  stands  upon  the  sands 
To  greet  the  coming  fisher's  oar. 

Swift  to  my  heart  the  waves  impart 
Another  dream  of  restless  life  , 

As  some  proud  mind  the  fierce  fates  bind, 
Or  doom  to  vain  and  endless  strife. 

The  waves  are  bright  with  peace  to-night, 
And  gladly  bound  'neath  summer's  reign  ; 

I  tread  the  verge  of  the  shelving  surge, 
To  muse  upon  its  wild  refrain. 

O  deep  !  thy  winds,  in  murmuring  chimes 
Sweet  to  my  ear,  my  love  implore  , 

Thou  dost  enthral  with  siren  call. 
And  tempt  me  from  thy  peaceful  shore  ! 

Yes,  o'er  thy  graves,  thy  heaving  waves, 
A  stern  delight  with  danger  dwells  ; 

There's  buoyant  life  amid  thy  strife, 
And  rapture  in  thy  lonely  dells. 

E'en  in  thy  wrath,  thy  surging  path 
Hath  peril's  joy  beyond  thy  shores  I 

Amid  the  glare  of  thy  despair, 
The  soul  above  thy  terror  soars. 

But  'neath  thy  smile  there's  death  and  wile, 
The  dark  abyss,  the  waiting  grave  ! 

Thy  surges  close  o'er  human  woes 
On  distant  strand,  in  secret  cave  ! 

Insatiate  sea  !  oh,  where  is  she 
Who  trod  in  love  thy  gathered  sands  ? 

Thou  gavest  her  back  as  wreck  and  wrack, 
Pallid,  to  sad,  imploring  hands  ! 

And  where  is  he,  O  sea  !  O  sea  ! 
Who  dared  thy  treacherous  crests  to  ride  ? 

The  quick  command,  the  hastening  hand. 
Were  vain  to  rescue  from  thy  tide  ! 

Yet  not  in  woe  the  plaint  should  go 
Against  thee  for  the  storm's  behest ; 

Thou'rt  but  the  slave  when  wild  winds  rave 
And  tyrant  tempests  lash  thy  breast. 

Doomed  in  thy  keen  the  fates  to  meet. 
Thou  dost  obey  a  mightier  wrath  ! 

Imperious  sway  commands  thy  way, 
And  riots  in  its  reckless  path. 

Shall  time's  swift  flight  e'er  stay  thy  might 
That  dooms  us  to  thy  caves  unblest ! 


Or  God's  right  arm  thy  tides  disarm, 
And  soothe  to  peace  thy  long  unrest  ? 

No  '  still  thy  waves  with  moaning  staves   ' 
Shall  heave  thy  gray  sands  to  the  shore. 

And  thou  shalt  roU  o'er  depth  and  shoal 
Forever  and  forevermore ! 

William  Whitehead 


BY  THE  SEA 

'T  is  a  beauteous  evening,  calm  and  free  , 
The  holy  time  is  quiet  as  a  nun 
Breathless  with  adoration  ■,  the  broad  sun 
Is  sinking  down  in  its  tranquility  ; 

The  gentleness  of  heaven  is  on  the  sea; 
Listen  !  the  mighty  being  is  awake. 
And  doth  with  his  eternal  motion  make 
A  sound  like  thunder — everlastingly. 

Dear  child  I  dear  girl !  that  walk'st  with  me  here. 
If  thou  appear  untouched  by  solemn  thought 
Thy  nature  is  not  therefore  less  divine : 

Thou  liest  in  Abraham's  bosom  all  the  year, 
And  worship'st  at  the  Temple's  inner  shrine, 
God  being  with  thee  when  we  know  it  not. 

William  Wordsworth 


ON  THE   LOSS  OF  "THE  ROYAL  GEORGE 

WRITTEN  WHEN   THE   NEWS  ARRIVED  '   1782 

*OLL  for  the  brave — 

The  brave  that  are  no  more  ! 
All  sunk  beneath  the  wave. 
Fast  by  their  native  shore. 

Eight  hundred  of  the  brave. 
Whose  courage  well  was  tried, 

Had  made  the  vessel  heel, 
And  laid  her  on  her  side. 

A  land-breeze  shook  the  shrouds, 

And  she  was  overset. 
Down  went  the  Royal  George, 

With  all  her  crew  complete. 

Toll  for  the  brave  ! 

Brave  Kempenfelt  is  gone  , 
His  last  sea  fight  is  fought. 

His  work  of  glory  done. 

It  was  not  in  the  battle  ; 

No  tempest  gave  the  shock  ; 
She  sprang  no  fatal  leak  ; 

She  ran  upon  no  rock 

His  sword  was  in  its  sheath, 

His  fingers  held  the  pen, 
When  Kempenfelt  went  down 

With  twice  four  hundred  men. 


SEA   PICTURES. 


223 


Weigh  the  vessel  up, 

Once  dreaded  by  our  foes  ! 
And  mingle  with  our  cup 

The  tear  that  England  owes. 

Her  timbers  yet  are  sound, 

And  she  may  float  again, 
Full  charged   with  England's   thunder, 

And  plough  the  distant  main. 

But  Kempenfelt  is  gone; 

His  victories  are  o'er ; 
And  he  and  his  eight  hundred 

Shall  plough  the  wave  no  more. 

William  Cowper. 


THE  SHIPWRECK. 

'  N  vain  the  cords  and  axes  were  prepared. 
For  now  the  audacious  seas  insult  the  yard ; 
High  o'er  the  ship  they  throw  a  horrid  shade 
And  o'er  her  burst  in  terrible  cascade. 
Uplifted  on  the  surge,  to  heaven  she  flies, 
Her  shattered  top  half  buried  in  the  skies, 
Then  headlong  plunging  thunders  on  the  ground  ; 
Earth  groans  !  air  trembles  !  and  the  deeps  resound  ! 
Her  giant-bulk  the  dread  concussion  feels, 
And  quivering  with  the  wound  in  torment  reels. 
So  reels,  convulsed  with  agonizing  throes, 
The  bleeding  bull  beneath  the  murderer's  blows. 
Again  she  plunges  !  hark  !  a  second  shock 
Tears  her  strong  bottom  on  the  marble  rock  : 
Down  on  the  vale  of  death,  with  dismal  cries. 
The  fated  victims,  shuddering,  roll  their  eyes 
In  wild  despair  ;  while  yet  another  stroke, 
With  deep  convulsion,  rends  the  solid  oak  ; 
Till  like  the  mine,  in  whose  infernal  cell 
The  lurking  demons  of  destruction  dwell. 
At  length  asunder  torn  her  frame  divides, 
And,  crashing,  spreads  in  ruin  o'er  the  tides. 

O,  were  it  mine  with  tuneful  Maro's  art 
To  wake  to  sympathy  the  feeling  heart ; 
Like  him  the  smooth  and  mournful  verse  to  dress 
In  all  the  pomp  of  exquisite  distress, 
Then  too  severely  taught  by  cruel  fate. 
To  share  in  all  the  perils  I  relate, 
Then  might  I  with  unrivalled  strains  deplore 
The  impervious  horrors  of  a  leeward  shore  ! 

As  o'er  the  surge  the  stooping  mainmast  hung. 
Still  oa  the  rigging  thirty  seamen  clung ; 
Some,  struggling,  on  a  broken  crag  were  cast, 
And  there  by  oozy  tangles  grappled  fast. 
Awhile  they  bore  the  o'erwhelming  billows'  rage, 
Unequal  combat  with  their  fate  to  wage ; 
Till,  all  benumbed  and  feeble,  they  forego 
Their  slippery  hold,  and  smk  to  shades  below. 
Some,  from  the  main-yard  arm  impetuous  thrown 
On  marble  ridges,  die  without  a  groan. 
Three  with  Palemon  on  their  skill  depend, 


And  from  the  wreck  on  oars  and  rafts  descend. 
Now  on  the  mountain  wave  on  high  they  ride. 
Then  downward  plunge  beneath  the  involving  tide, 
Till  one,  who  seems  in  agony  to  strive. 
The  whirling  breakers  heave  on  shore  alive; 
The  rest  a  speedier  end  of  anguish  knew, 
And  pressed  the  stony  beach,  a  lifeless  crew  ! 

William  Falconer. 


THE  SAILOR'S  CONSOLATION. 

NE  flight  came  on  a  hurricane, 
The  sea  was  mountains  rolling, 
When  Barney  Buntline  turned  his  quid, 
And  said  to  Billy  Bowling  : 
"A  strong  nor'wester's  blowing.  Bill; 
Hark !  don't  ye  hear  it  roar  now  ? 
Lord  help  'em,  how  I  pities  them 
Unhappy  folks  on  shore  now  ! 

"Foolhardy  chaps  who  live  in  towns, 

Wliat  danger  they  are  all  in, 
And  now  lie  quaking  in  their  beds, 

For  fear  the  roof  shall  fall  in  : 
Poor  creatures  !  how  they  envies  us, 

And  wishes,  I've  a  notion. 
For  our  good  luck,  in  such  a  storm. 

To  be  upon  the  ocean  ! 

"And  as  for  them  who're  out  all  day 

On  business  from  their  houses, 
And  late  at  night  are  coming  home. 

To  cheer  their  babes  and  spouses, — 
While  you  and  I,  Bill,  on  the  deck 

Are  comfortably  lying, 
My  eyes  !   what  tiles  and  chimney-pots 

Above  their  heads  are  flying ! 

"And  very  often  have  we  heard 
How  men  are  killed  and  undone 
By  overturns  of  carriages. 

By  thieves  and  fires  in  London. 
We  know  what  risks  all  landsmen  run. 

From  noblemen  to  tailors; 
Then,  Bill,  let  us  thank  Providence 
That  you  and  I  are  sailors." 

William  Pitt. 


THE  DISAPPOINTED  LOVER. 

WILL  go  back  to  the  great  sweet  mother — 
Mother  and  lover  of  men,  the  sea. 
I  will  go  down  to  her,  I  and  none  other. 
Close  with  her,  kiss  her,  and  mix  her  with  me ; 
Cling  to  her,  strive  with  her,  hold  her  fast. 
O  fair  white  mother,  in  days  long  past 
Born  without  sister,  born  without  brother. 
Set  free  my  soul  as  thy  soul  is  free. 


224 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


0  fair  green-girdled  mother  of  mine, 

Sea,  that  art  clothed  with  the  sun  and  the  rain, 
Thy  sweet  hard  kisses  are  strong  like  wine, 

Thy  large  embraces  are  keen  like  pain. 
Save  me  and  hide  me  with  all  thy  waves, 
Find  me  one  grave  of  thy  thousand  graves, 
Those  pure  cold  populous  graves  of  thine — 

Wrought  without  hand  in  a  world  without  stain. 

1  shall  sleep,  and  move  with  the  moving  ships, 

Change  as  the  winds  change,  veer  in  the  tide  ; 
My  lips  will  feast  on  the  foam  of  thy  lips, 

I  shall  rise  with  thy  rising,  with  thee  subside  ; 
Sleep,  and  not  know  if  she  be,  if  she  were — 
Filled  full  with  life  to  the  eyes  and  hair, 
As  a  rose  is  full  filled  to  the  rose-leaf  tips 

With  splendid  summer  and  perfume  and  pride. 

This  woven  raiment  of  nights  and  days. 

Were  it  once  cast  off  and  unwound  from  me. 
Naked  and  glad  would  I  walk  in  thy  ways. 
Alive  and  aware  of  thy  waves  and  thee ; 
Clear  of  the  whole  world,  hidden  at  home, 
Clothed  with  the  green,  and  crowned  with  the  foam, 
A  pulse  of  the  life  of  thy  straits  and  bays, 
A  vein  in  the  heart  of  the  streams  of  the  sea. 

Algernon  Charles  Swinburne. 


THE  LONG  VOYAGE. 

'HE  mackerel  boats  sailed  slowly  out 
Into  the  darkening  sea, 
But  the  gray  gull's  flight  was  landward, 
"f"  The  kestrel  skimmed  the  lea. 

Strange  whisperings  were  in  the  air ; 

And  though  no  leaflet  stirred, 
The  echo  of  the  distant  storm, 

The  moaning  sough,  was  heard. 

It  came — the  swift-winged  hurricane — 

Bursting  upon  the  shore, 
Till  the  wild  bird's  nest  and  the  fisher's  cot 

All  trembled  at  its  roar. 

And  women  wept,  and  watched  and  wept, 
And  prayed  for  the  night  to  wane  ; 

And  watched  and  prayed,  though  the  setting  sun 
Lit  up  the  window-pane. 

"  A  sail !  "    That  sail  is  not  for  you  ; 

It  slowly  fades  away. 
The  sun  may  set ;  the  moon  may  rise  ; 

The  night  may  turn  to  day  ; 

Slow  years  roll  by,  and  the  solemn  stars 

Glide  on — but  all  in  vain  ! 
They  have  sailed  away  on  a  long,  long  voyage  ; 

They'll  never  come  back  again. 

Sam  Slick,  Jr. 


DOVER  BEACH. 

HE  sea  is  calm  to-night, 
The  tide  is  full,  the  moon  lies  fair 
Upon  the  Straits  ; — on  the  French  coast,  the 
t  light 

Gleams  and  is  gone;  the  cliffs  of  England  stand, 

Glimmering  and  vast,  out  in  the  tranquil  bay. 

Come  to  the  window ;  sweet  is  the  night  air  ! 

Only  from  the  long  line  of  spray 

Where  the  ebb  meets  the  moon-blanched  sand, 

Listen  I  you  hear  the  grating  roar 

Of  pebbles  which  the  waves  suck  back,  and  fling, 

At  their  return  upon  the  high  strand. 

Begin  and  cease,  and  then  again  begin. 

With  tremulous  cadence  slow,  and  bring 

The  eternal  note  of  sadness  in. 

Matthew  Arnold. 


ADDRESS  TO  THE  OCEAN. 

THOU  vast  ocean  !  ever  sounding  sea  ! 

Thou  symbol  of  a  drear  immensity? 

Thou  thing  that  windest  round  the  solid 
-^  world 

Like  a  huge  animal,  which,  downward  hurled 
From  the  black  clouds,  lies  weltering  and  alone. 
Lashing  and  writhing  till  its  strength  be  gone  ! 
Thy  voice  is  like  the  thunder,  and  thy  sleep 
Is  as  a  giant's  slumber,  loud  and  deep. 
Thou  speakest  in  the  East  and  in  the  West 
At  once,  and  on  thy  heavily  laden  breast 
Fleets  come  and  go,  and  shapes  that  have  no  life 
Or  motion,  yet  are  moved  and  meet  in  strife. 
The  earth  has  naught  of  this  :  no  chance  or  change 
Ruffles  its  surface,  and  no  spirits  dare 
Give  answer  to  the  tempest  wakened  air ; 
But  o'er  its  wastes  the  weakly  tenants  range 
At  will,  and  wound  its  bosom  as  they  go; 
Ever  the  same,  it  hath  no  ebb,  no  flow  : 
But  in  their  stated  rounds  the  seasons  come, 
And  pass  like  visions  to  their  wonted  home ; 
And  come  again,  and  vanish ;  the  young  Spring 
Looks  ever  bright  with  leaves  and  blossoming  ; 
And  Winter  always  winds  his  sullen  horn, 
When  the  wild  Autumn,  with  a  look  forlorn. 
Dies  in  his  stormy  manhood  ;  and  the  skies 
Weep,  and  flowers  sicken,  when  the  summer  flies. 
O,  wonderful  thou  art,  great  element. 
And  fearful  in  thy  spleeny  humors  bent. 
And  Jovely  in  repose  !  thy  summer  form 
Is  beautiful,  and  when  thy  silver  waves 
Make  music  in  earths  dark  and  winding  caves, 
1  love  to  wander  on  thy  pebbled  beach, 
Marking  the  sunlight  at  the  evening  hour, 
And  hearken  to  the  thoughts  thy  waters  teach, — 
Eternity — eternity — and  power. 

Bryan  W.  Procter  {Barry  Cornwall). 


SEA  PICTURES. 


225 


THE  SEA-SHORE. 

HAVE  seen  a  curious  child,  who  dweft  upon  a 

tract 
Of  inland  ground,  applying  to  his  ear 
The  convolutions  of  a  smooth-lipped  shell 
To  which  in  silence  hushed,  his  very  soul 
Listened  intensely  ;  and  his  countenance  soon 
Brightened  with  joy  ;  for  from  within  were  heard 
Murmurings  whereby  the  monitor  expressed 
Mysterious  union  with  its  native  sea. 
Even  such  a  shell  the  universe  itself 
Is  to  the  ear  of  Faith  ;  and  there  are  times, 
I  doubt  not,  when  to  you  it  doth  impart 
Authentic  tidings  of  invisible  things  ; 
Of  ebb  and  flow,  and  ever-during  power; 
And  central  peace,  subsisting  at  the  heart 
Of  endless  agitation. 

William  Wordsworth. 


© 


THE  CORAL  GROVE. 

EEP  in  the  wave  is  a  coral  grove, 
Where  the  purple  mullet  and  gold  fish  rove; 
Where  the  sea-flower  spreads  its  leaves  of 
blue, 
That  never  are  wet  with  falling  dew, 
But  in  bright  and  changeful  beauty  shine 
Far  down  in  the  green  and  glassy  brine. 
The  floor  is  of  sand,  like  the  mountain  drift, 
And  the  pearl  shells  spangle  the  flinty  snow : 
From  coral  rocks  the  sea-plants  lift 
Their  boughs,  where  the  tides  and  billows  flow  ; 
The  water  is  calm  and  still  below. 
For  the  winds  and  the  waves  are  absent  there, 
And  the  sands  are  bright  as  the  stars  that  glow 
In  the  motionless  fields  of  upper  air  : 
There  with  its  waving  blade  of  green, 
The  sea-flag  streams  through  the  silent  water. 
And  the  crimson  leaf  of  the  dulse  is  seen 
To  blush  like  a  banner  bathed  in  slaughter : 
There  with  a  light  and  easy  motion 
The  fan  coral  sweeps  through  the  clear  deep  sea  ; 
And  the  yellow  and  scarlet  tufts  of  ocean 
Are  bending  like  corn  on  the  upland  lea ; 
And  life,  in  rare  and  beautiful  forms. 
Is  sporting  amid  those  bowers  of  stone, 
And  is  safe,  when  the  wrathful  spirit  of  storms 
Has  made  the  top  of  the  waves  his  own  : 
And  when  the  ship  from  his  fury  flies, 
When  the  myriad  voices  of  ocean  roar. 
When  the  wind-god  frowns  in  the  murky  skies. 
And  demons  are  waiting  the  wreck  on  the  shore. 
Then,  far  below,  in  the  peaceful  sea. 
The  purple  mullet  and  gold-fish  rove. 
Where  the  waters  murmur  tranquilly 
Through  the  bending  twigs  of  the  coral  grove. 

James  Gates  Percival. 

(15) 


THE  mCHCAPE   ROCK. 

O  stir  in  the  air,  no  stir  in  the  sea. 
The  ship  was  as  still  as  she  could  be. 
Her  sails  from  heaven  received  no  motion, 
Her  keel  was  steady  in  the  ocean. 

Without  either  sign  or  sound  of  their  shock 
The  waves  flowed  over  the  Inchcape  Rock  ; 
So  little  they  rose,  so  little  they  fell. 
They  did  not  move  the  Inchcape  bell. 

The  good  old  Abbot  of  Aberbrothok 
Had  placed  that  bell  on  the  Inchcape  Rock  ; 
On  a  buoy  in  the  storm  it  floated  and  swung. 
And  over  the  waves  its  warning  rung. 

When  the  Rock  was  hid  by  the  surges'  swell, 
The  mariners  heard  the  warning  bell ; 
And  then  they  knew  the  perilous  Rock, 
And  blest  the  Abbot  of  Aberbrothok. 

The  sun  in  heaven  was  shining  gay. 

All  things  were  joyful  on  tliat  day  ; 

The  sea-birds  screamed  as  they  wheeled  round 

And  there  was  joyance  in  their  sound. 

The  buoy  of  the  Inchcape  bell  was  seen 
A  darker  speck  on  the  ocean  green  ; 
Sir  Ralph  the  Rover  walked  his  deck 
And  fixed  his  eye  on  the  darker  speck. 

He  felt  the  cheering  power  of  spring, 
It  made  him  whistle,  it  made  him  sing ; 
His  heart  was  mirthful  to  excess. 
But  the  Rover's  mirth  was  wickedness. 

His  eye  was  on  the  Inchcape  float ; 
Quoth  he,  "  My  men,  put  out  the  boat. 
And  row  me  to  the  Inchcape  Rock, 
And  I'll  plague  the  priest  of  Aberbrothok. " 

The  boat  is  lowered,  the  boatmen  row, 

And  to  the  Inchcape  Rock  they  go  ; 

Sir  Ralpli  bent  over  from  the  boat. 

And  he  cut  the  bell  from  the  Inchcape  float. 

Down  sank  the  bell,  with  a  gurgling  sound, 

The  bubbles  rose  and  burst  around  ; 

Quoth  Sir  Ralph,  "  The  next  who  comes  to  the  Rock 

Won't  bless  the  Abbot  of  Aberbrothok." 

Sir  Ralph  the  Rover  sailed  away. 
He  scoured  the  seas  for  many  a  day ; 
And  now  grown  rich  with  plundered  store. 
He  steers  his  course  for  Scotland's  shore. 

So  thick  a  haze  o'erspreads  the  sky 
They  cannot  see  the  sun  on  high  ; 
The  wind  hath  blown  a  gale  all  day, 
At  evening  it  hath  died  away. 

On  the  deck  the  Rover  takes  his  stand 
So  dark  it  is  they  see  no  land. 


22G 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


Quoth  Sir  Ralph,  "  It  will  be  lighter  soon, 
For  there  is  the  dawn  of  the  rising  moon." 

'Can'st  hear,"  said  one,  "the  breakers  roar? 
For  methinks  we  should  be  near  the  shore  ; 
Now  where  we  are  I  cannot  tell, 
But  I  wish  I  could  hear  the  Inchcape  bell." 

They  hear  no  sound,  the  swell  is  strong ; 
Though  the  wind  hath  fallen,  they  drift  along. 
Till  the  vessel  strikes  with  a  shivering  shock  : 
Cried  they,  "  It  is  the  Inchcape  Rock ! " 

Sir  Ralph  the  Rover  tore  his  hair, 
He  curst  himself  in  his  despair  ; 
The  waves  rush  in  on  every  side, 
The  ship  is  sinking  beneath  the  tide. 

But  even  in  his  dying  fear 
One  dreadful  sound  could  the  Rover  hear, 
A  sound  as  if  with  the  Inchcape  bell, 
The  fiends  below  were  ringing  his  knell. 

Robert  Southev. 


TO  SEA! 

*0  sea  !  to  sea  !  the  calm  is  o'er, 

The  wanton  water  leaps  in  sport. 
And  rattles  down  the  pebbly  shore, 
The  dolphin  wheels,  the  sea-cows  snort, 
And  unseen  mermaid's  pearly  song 
Comes  bubbling  up,  the  weeds  among. 
Fling  broad  the  sail,  dip  deep  the  oar  : 
To  sea  !  to  sea  !  the  calm  is  o'er. 

To  sea  !  to  sea  !  our  white-winged  bark 
Shall  billowing  cleave  its  watery  way, 

And  with  its  shadow,  fleet  and  dark, 
Break  the  caved  Triton's  azure  day. 

Like  mountain  eagle  soaring  light 

O'er  antelopes  on  Alpine  height. 

The  anchor  heaves  !     The  ship  swings  free, 

Our  sails  swell  full !    To  sea  !  to  sea  ! 

Thomas  Lovell  Beddoes. 


SONG  OF  THE  EMIGRANTS  IN  BERMUDA. 


W 


HERE  the  remote  Bermudas  ride 
In  the  ocean's  bosom  unespied. 
From  a  small  boat  that  rowed  along 
The  listening  winds  received  this  song  : 
"What  should  we  do  but  sing  His  praise 
That  led  us  through  the  watery  maze 
Where  he  the  huge  sea  monsters  wracks. 
That  lift  the  deep  upon  their  backs, 
Unto  an  isle  so  long  unknown. 
And  yet  far  kinder  than  our  own  ? 
He  lands  us  on  a  grassy  stage. 
Safe  from  the  storms,  and  prelate's  rage  ; 
He  gave  us  this  eternal  spring 
Which  here  enamels  everything, 


And  sends  the  fowls  to  us  in  care 
On  daily  visits  through  the  air. 
He  hangs  in  shades  the  orange  bright 
Like  golden  lamps  in  a  green  night. 
And  does  in  the  pomegranates  close 
Jewels  more  rich  than  Ormus  shows  : 
He  makes  the  figs  our  mouths  to  meet, 
And  throws  the  melons  at  our  feet ; 
But  apples,  plants  of  such  a  price, 
No  tree  could  ever  bear  them  twice. 
With  cedars  chosen  by  his  hand 
From  Lebanon  he  stores  the  land  ; 
And  makes  the  hollow  seas  that  roar 
Proclaim  the  ambergris  on  shore. 
He  cast  (of  which  we  rather  boast) 
The  Gospel's  pearl  upon  our  coast ; 
And  in  these  rocks  for  us  did  frame 
A  temple  where  to  sound  his  name ; 
O,  let  our  voice  his  praise  exalt 
Till  it  arrive  at  heaven's  vault, 
Which  then  perhaps  rebounding  may 
Echo  beyond  the  Mexique  bay  !  " — 
Thus  sung  they  in  the  English  boat 
A  holy  and  a  cheerful  note  ; 
And  all  the  way,  to  guide  their  chime, 
With  falling  oars  they  kept  the  time. 

Andrew  Marvell. 


STANZAS  ON  THE  SEA. 

H  !  I  shall  not  forget  until  memory  depart, 
When  first  I  beheld  it,  the  glow  of  my  heart ; 
The  wonder,  the  awe,  the  delight  that  stole 
o'er  me, 

When  its  billowy  boundlessness  opened  before  me. 
As  I  stood  on  its  margin,  or  roamed  on  its  strand, 
I  felt  new  ideas  within  me  expand, 
Of  glory  and  grandeur,  unknown  till  that  hour, 
And  my  spirit  was  mute  in  the  presence  of  power ! 
In  the  surf-beaten  sands  that  encircled  it  round, 
In  the  billow's  retreat,  and  the  breakers  rebound, 
In  its  white-drifted  foam,  and  its  dark-heaving  green, 
Each  moment  I  gazed,  some  fresh  beauty  was  seen. 
And  thus,  while  I  wandered  on  ocean's  bleak  shore, 
And  surveyed  its  vast  surface,  and  heard  its  waves 

roar, 
I  seemed  wrapt  in  a  dream  of  romantic  delight. 
And  haunted  by  majesty,  glory  and  might ! 

Bernard  Bartow. 


(3 


SEA-WEED. 

WEARY  weed,  tossed  to  and  fro. 

Drearily  drenched  in  the  ocean  brine, 
Soaring  high  and  sinking  low, 

Lashed  along  without  will  of  mine  ; 
Sport  of  the  spume  of  the  surging  sea. 
Flung  on  the  foam,  afar  and  anear, 
Mark  my  manifold  mystery — 
Growth  and  grace  in  their  place  appear. 


SEA   PICTURES. 


227 


I  bear  round  berries,  gray  and  red, 

Rootless  and  rover  though  I  be ; 
My  spangled  leaves,  when  nicely  spread 

Arboresce  as  a  trunkless  tree  ; 
Corals  curious  coat  me  o'er, 

White  and  hard  in  apt  array  ; 
Mid  the  wild  waves'  rude  uproar 

Gracefully  grow  I,  night  and  day. 

Hearts  there  are  on  the  sounding  shore. 

Something  wiiispers  soft  to  me, 
Restless  and  roaming  forevermore, 

Like  this  wenry  weed  of  the  sea  ; 
Bear  they  yet  on  each  beating  breast 

The  eternal  type  of  the  wondrous  whole. 
Growth  unfolding  amidst  unrest, 

Grace  informing  with  silent  soul. 

Cornelius  George  Fenner. 


THE  TAR  FOR  ALL  WEATHERS. 

BAILED  from  the  Downs  in  the  "  Nancy," 

My  jib  how  she  smacked  through  the  breeze  ! 
She's  a  vessel  as  tight  to  my  fancy 
As  ever  sailed  on  the  salt  seas. 
So  adieu  to  the  white  clilTs  of  Britain, 
Our  girls  and  our  dear  native  shore  ! 
For  if  some  hard  rock  we  should  split  on, 

We  shall  never  see  them  any  more. 
But  sailors  were  born  for  all  weathers, 
Great  guns  let  it  blow,  high  or  low. 
Our  duty  keeps  us  to  our  tethers, 
And  where  the  gale  drives  we  must  go. 

When  we  entered  the  Straits  of  Gibraltar 

I  verily  thought  she'd  have  sunk, 
For  the  wind  began  so  for  to  alter. 

She  yawed  just  as  tho'  she  was  drunk, 
The  squall  tore  the  mainsail  to  shivers, 

Htlm  aweather,  the  hoarse  boatswain  cries  ; 
Brace  the  foresail  athwart,  see  she  quivers. 

As  through  the  rough  tempest  she  flies. 
But  sailors  were  born  for  all  weathers. 

Great  guns  let  it  blow,  high  or  low. 
Our  duly  keeps  us  to  our  tethers. 

And  where  the  gale  drives  we  must  go. 

The  storm  came  on  thicker  and  faster, 

As  black  just  as  pitch  was  the  sky, 
When  truly  a  doleful  disaster 

Befel  three  poor  sailors  and  L 
Ben  Buntline.  Sam  Shroud  and  Dick  Handsail, 

By  a  blast  that  came  furious  and  hard. 
Just  while  we  were  furling  the  mainsail. 

Were  every  soul  swept  from  the  yard. 
But  sailors  were  born  for  all  weathers, 

Great  guns  let  it  blow,  high  or  low. 
Our  duty  keeps  us  to  our  tethers. 

And  where  the  gale  drives  we  must  go. 


Poor  Ben,  Sam,  and  Dick  cried  "peccavi," 

As  for  I,  at  the  risk  of  my  neck — 
While  they  s.nnk  down  in  peace  to  old  Davy — 

Caught  a  rt'pe,  and  so  landed  on  deck. 
Well,  what  would  you  have  ?    We  were  stranded. 

And  out  of  a  fine  jolly  crew 
Of  three  hundred  that  sailed,  never  landed 

But  I  and,  I  think,  twenty-two. 

But  sailors  were  born  for  all  weathers. 

Great  guns  let  it  blow,  high  or  low. 
Our  duty  keeps  us  to  our  tethers, 

And  where  the  gale  drives  we  must  go. 

Charles  Dibdin. 


THE  "ATLANTIC." 

The  good    steamship  "  Atlantic  "  was  wrecked  on  the  coast  of 
Newfoundland,  and  sevcnil  hundred  lives  were  lost. 

build  her  long  and  narrow  and  deep  ! 
She  shall  cut  the  sea  with  a  scimetar's  sweep, 
Whatever  betides  and  whoever  may  weep  1 

Bring  out  the  red  wine  !     Lift  the  glass  to  the  lip  ! 
With  a  roar  of  great  guns,  and  a  "  I  lip  1  hip  ! 
Hurrah  ! "  for  the  craft,  we  will  christen  the  ship  ! 

Dash  a  draught  on  the  bow !    Ah,  the  spar  of  white 

wood 
Drips  into  the  sea  till  it  colors  the  flood 
With  the  very  own  double  and  symbol  of  blood  ! 

Now  out  with  the  name  of  the  monarch  gigantic 
That  shall  queen  it  so  grandly  when  surges  are  frantic ! 
Child  of  fire  and  of  iron,  God  save  the  "Atlantic  !" 

All   aboard,  my  fine  fellows!     "Up    anchor!"  the 

word — 
Ah,  never  again  shall  that  order  be  heard. 
For  two  worlds  will  be  mourning  you  gone  to  a  third  ! 

To  the  trumpet  of  March  wild  gallops  the  sea  ; 
The  white-crested  troopers  are  under  the  lee — 
Old  World  and  New  World  and  Soul-World  are  three. 

Great  garments  of  rain  wrap  the  desolate  night ; 
Sweet  heaven  disastered  is  lost  to  the  sight ; 
"Atlantic,"  crash  on  in  the  pride  of  thy  might ! 
Willi  thy  look-out's  dim  cry,   "One  o'clock,  and  all 
right!" 

Ho,  down  with  the  hatches  !     The  seas  come  aboard  i 
All  together  they  come,  like  a  passion.ite  word. 
Like  pirates  that  put  every  soul  to  the  sword  ! 

Their  black  flag  all  abroad  makes  murky  the  air. 
But  the  ship  parts  the  night  as  a  maiden  her  hair — 
Through  and  through  tiie  thick  gloom,  from  land  hcrj 

to  land  there, 
Like  the  shuttle  that  weaves  for  a  mourner  to  wear  ! 

Good-night,  proud  "  Atlantic  ! "    One  tick  of  the  clock, 
And  a  staggering  craunch  and  a  shivering  shock — 
'Tis  the  flint  and  the  steel !     'Tis  the  ship  and  the  rock  ! 


228 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


Deathless  sparks  are  struck  out  from  the  bosoms  of 

girls, 
From  the  stout  heart  of  manhood,  in  scintilLint  whirls, 
Like  the  stars  of  the  flag  when  the  banner  unfurls  ! 

What  hundreds  went  up  unto  God  in  their  sleep ! 
What  hundreds  in  agony  baffled  the  deep — 
Nobody  to  pray  and  nobody  to  weep  ! 

Alas  for  the  flag  of  the  single  "  White  Star," 
With  light  pale  and  cold  as  the  woman's  hands  are 
WhOj  froze  in  the  shrouds,  flashed  her  jewels  afar. 
Lost  her  hold  on  the  world,  and  then  clutched  at  a  spar ! 

God  of  mercy  and  grace  !     How  the  bubbles  come  up 
With  souls  from  the  revel,  who  stayed  not  to  sup  ; 
Death  drank  the  last  toast,  and  then  shattered  the  cup ! 
Benjamin  F.  Taylor. 


THE  SHIPWRECKED  SAILORS. 

'HE  floods  are  raging,  and  the  gales  blow  high, 
Low  as  a  dungeon-roof  impends  the  sky  ; 
Prisoners  of  hope,  between  the  clouds  and 
"^  waves, 

Six  fearless  sailors  man  yon  boat  that  braves 

Peril  redoubling  upon  peril  past ; 

— From  childhood  nurslings  of  the  wayward  blast, 

Aloft  as  o'er  a  buoyant  arch  they  go. 

Whose  keystone  bieaks — as  deep  they  plunge  below ; 

Unyielding,  though  the  strength  of  man  be  vain ; 

Struggling,  though  borne  like^surf  along  the  main ; 

In  front,  a  battlement  of  rocks  ;  in  rear, 

Billow  on  billow  bounding  ;  near,  more  near, 

They  verge  to  ruin ; — life  and  death  depend 

On  the  next  impulse — shrieks  and  prayers  ascend. 

James  Montgomery. 


© 


THE  BEACON  LIGHT. 

ARKNESS  was  deepening  o'er  the  seas, 
And  still  the  hulk  drove  on  ; 
No  sail  to  answer  to  the  breeze, — 
Her  masts  and  cordage  gone  : 
Gloomy  and  drear  her  course  of  fear, — 

Each  looked  but  for  a  grave, — 

When,  full  in  sight,  the  beacon-light 

Came  streaming  o'er  the  wave. 

And  gayly  of  the  tale  they  told. 

When  they  were  safe  on  shore  ; 
How  hearts  had  sunk,  and  hopes  grown  cold. 

Amid  the  billows'  roar  ; 
When  not  a  star  had  shone  from  far, 

By  its  pale  beam  to  save, 
Then,  full  in  sight,  the  beacon-light 

Came  streaming  o'er  the  wave. 

Then  wildly  rose  the  gladdening  shout 
Of  all  that  hardy  crew ; 


Boldly  they  put  the  helm  about, 
And  through  the  surf  they  flew. 

Storm  was  forgot,  toil  heeded  not, 
And  loud  the  cheer  they  gave, 

As,  full  in  sight,  the  beacon-light 
Came  streaming  o'er  the  wave. 

Thus,  in  the  night  of  nature's  gloom. 

When  sorrow  bows  the  heart, 
When  cheering  hopes  no  more  illume. 

And  comforts  all  depart ; 
Then  from  afar  shines  Bethlehem's  star, 

With  cheering  light  to  save ; 
And,  full  in  sight,  its  beacon-light 

Comes  streaming  o'er  the  grave. 

Julia  Pardoe. 

AT  SEA. 

'HE  night  is  made  for  cooling  shade, 
For  silence,  and  for  sleep  ; 
And  when  I  was  a  child,  I  laid 
My  hands  upon  my  breast,  and  prayed, 
And  sank  to  slumbers  deep  : 
Childlike  as  then  I  lie  to-night. 
And  watch  my  lonely  cabin-light. 

Each  movement  of  the  swaying  lamp 

Shows  how  the  vessel  reels  : 
As  o'er  her  deck  the  billows  tramp, 
And  all  her  timbers  strain  and  cramp 

With  every  shock  she  feels. 
It  starts  and  shudders,  while  it  burns. 
And  in  its  hinged  socket  turns. 

Now  swinging  slow  and  slanting  low, 

It  almost  level  lies  ; 
And  yet  I  know,  while  to  and  fro 
I  watch  the  seaming  pendule  go 

With  restless  fall  and  rise. 
The  steady  shaft  is  still  upright, 
Poising  its  little  globe  of  light. 

0  hand  of  God  !     O  lamp  of  peace  ! 
O  promise  of  my  soul  1 

Though  weak,  and  tossed,  and  ill  at  ease. 
Amid  the  roar  of  smiting  seas. 
The  ship's  convulsive  roll, 

1  own  with  love  and  tender  awe 
Yon  perfect  type  of  faith  and  law. 

A  heavenly  trust  my  spirit  calms, 

My  soul  is  filled  with  light : 
The  Ocean  sings  his  solemn  psalms. 
The  wild  winds  chant :  I  cross  my  palms, 

Happy  as  if  to-night 
Under  the  cottage  roof  again 
I  heard  the  soothing  summer  rain. 

John  Townsend  Trowbridge. 


SEA  PICTURES. 


229 


RIME  OF  THE  ANCIENT  MARINER. 


An  Ancient 
Mariner 
meeteth 
three  ^aI• 
lants  hidden 
to  a  wed- 
ding feast. 
And  detain- 
cth  one. 


The  Wed- 
ding-Guest 
is  spcll- 
tuund  by 
the  eye  of 
tlic  old  sea- 
faring; man, 
and  con- 
strained 13 
hea-  his 


The  Mari. 
ner  tells 
how  the 
ship  sailed 
southward 
with  a  gooa 
wind  and 
fair  weathci- 
tillit 

reached  th.^ 
line. 


The  Wed- 
ding-Guest 
heareth 
the  bridal 
music;  but 
the  Mariner 
continueth 
his  tale. 


The  ship 
drawn  by  a 
storm  to- 
ward the 
kouth  pole. 


PART    I. 

Y*  T  is  an  Ancient  Mariner, 
•^*     And  he  stoppeth  one  of  three. 
•!»     "By  thy  long  gray  l>eard  and  glittering 
I  eye, 

Now  wherefore  stoppest  thou  me  ? 

The  bridegroom's  doors  are  opened  wide. 
And  I  am  next  of  kin  ; 
The  guests  are  met,  the  feast  is  set — 
Mayst  hear  the  merry  din." 

He  holds  him  with  a  skinny  hand  : 

"  There  was  a  ship,"  quoth  he. 

"  Hold  off!  unhand  me,  graybeard  loon  !  " 

Eftsoons  his  hand  dropt  he. 

He  holds  him  with  his  glittering  eye — 
The  Wedding-Guest  stood  still ; 
He  listens  like  a  three  years'  child  ; 
The  Mariner  hath  his  will. 

The  Wedding-Guest  sat  on  a  stone — 
He  cannot  choose  but  hear ; 
And  thus  spake  on  that  ancient  man, 
The  bright-eyed  Mariner : 

"  The  ship  was  cheered,  the  harbor  cleared ; 

Merrily  did  we  drop 

Below  the  kirk,  below  the  hill. 

Below  the  light-house  top. 

The  sun  came  up  upon  the  left, 
Out  of  the  sea  came  he ; 
And  he  shone  bright,  and  on  the  right 
Went  down  into  the  sea  ; 

Higher  and  higher  every  dav. 

Till  over  the  mast  at  noon " 

The  Wedding-Guest  here  beat  his  breast, 
For  he  heard  the  loud  bassoon. 

The  Bride  hath  paced  into  the  hall — 
Red  as  a  rose  is  she  ; 
Nodding  their  heads  before  her  goes 
Thfe  merry  minstrelsy. 

The  Wedding-Guest  he  beat  his  breast. 
Yet  he  cannot  choose  but  hear  ; 
And  thus  spake  on  that  ancient  man, 
The  bright-eyed  Mariner : 

"  And  now  the  Storm -blast  came,  and  he 
Was  tyrannous  and  strong  ; 
He  struck  with  his  o'ertaking  wings. 
And  chased  us  south  along. 

With  sloping  masts  and  dipping  prow — 
As  who  pursued  with  j'ell  and  blow 
Still  treads  the  shadow  of  his  foe, 
And  forward  bends  his  head — 


The  ship  drove  fast ;  loud  roared  the  blast. 
And  southward  aye  we  fled. 

And  now  there  came  both  mist  and  snow 
And  it  grew  wondrous  cold  ; 
And  ice,  mast-high,  came  floating  by, 
As  green  as  emerald. 

And  through  the  drifts  the  snowy  clifTs 
Did  send  a  dismal  sheen  ; 
Nor  shapes  of  men  nor  beasts  we  ken — 
The  ice  was  all  between.  , 

The  ice  was  here,  the  ice  was  there. 

The  ice  was  all  around  ; 

It  cracked  and  growled,  and  roared  and 

howled. 
Like  noises  in  a  swound  ! 

At  length  did  cross  an  Albatross—- 
Thorough  the  fog  it  came ; 
As  if  it  had  been  a  Christian  soul, 
We  hailed  it  in  God's  name. 

It  ate  the  food  it  ne'er  had  eat, 
And  round  and  round  it  flew. 
The  ice  did  split  with  a  thunder-fit ; 
The  helmsman  steered  us  through  ! 

And  a  good  south  wind  sprung  up  behind  ; 
The  Albatross  did  follow. 
And  every  day,  for  food  or  play 
Came  to  the  mariners'  hollo  ! 

In  mist  or  cloud,  on  mast  or  shroud, 

It  perched  for  vespers  nine  ; 

Whiles    all  the   night,   through  fog-smoke 

white, 
Glimmered  the  white  moonshine." 

"  God  save  thee,  Ancient  Mariner ! 
From  the  fiends,  that  plague  thee  thus  ! — 
Why  look'st  thou  so?"— "With  my  cross- 
bow 
I  shot  the  Albatross. 


The  sun  now  rose  upon  the  right : 
Out  of  the  sea  came  he. 
Still  hid  in  mist,  and  on  the  left 
Went  down  into  the  sea. 

And  the  good  south  wind  still  blew  behind, 
But  no  sweet  bird  did  follow. 
Nor  any  day,  for  food  or  pl^y, 
Came  to  the  mariners'  hollo ! 

And  I  had  done  an  hellish  thing, 

And  it  would  work  'em  woe : 

For  all  averred  I  had  killed  the  bifid 

That  made  the  breeze  to  blow. 

Ah  wretch  !  said  they,  the  bird  to  slay, 

That  made  the  breeze  to  blow ! 


The  land  of 
ice  and  of 
fearful 
sounds 
where  no 


Till  a  ereat 
sea-bird, 
called  the 
Albatross 
came 
throuijh 
the  snow- 
fog,  and  vas 
received 
with  K^eat 
joy  and  hos 
pitality. 


And  1o!  tlie 
Albatross 

Erovcth  a 
ird  of  go-d 
omen,  and 
foUoweth 
the  ship  as  it 
returned 
northward 
throu'^h  fofr 
and  floating 
tee. 


TheAncient 
Mariner  in- 
hospitably 
killcth  the 
pious  bird  of 
good  omen. 


His  ship- 
mates cry 
out  against 
the  A:»ciem 
M  iriner.  fiu 
killin)(  tlie 
bird  ol  good 
luck. 


230 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


But  when     , 
tile  foj; 
cleared  ofl, 
they  juscir]r 
the  same, 
and  thus 
nnke  them- 
selves ac- 
complices in 
the  crime. 


The  fair 
breeze  con- 
tinues;    the 
ihil>  enters 
the  Pacific 
Ocean,  and 
sails  north- 
ward, even 
till  it  reach- 
es the  line. 

Tlie  ship 
hath  been 
suddenly 
becalmed; 


and  the 
Albatross 
begins  to 
be  avenged. 


A  Spirit 
had  fol- 
lowed them; 
one  of 
the  invisi- 
ble inhabit- 
ants of  this 
planet, 
neither  de- 
parted souls 
nor  angels. 
They  are 
very  numer- 
ous, and 
there  is  no 
climate  or 
element 
without  one 


The  ship- 
mates, in 
'their  sore 
distress, 
would  fain 
throw  the 
whole  guilt 
on  the  An- 
cient Mari- 
ner: in  sign 
whereof 
they  hang 
the  dead 
sea-bird 
round  his 
neck. 

The  Ancient 
Mariner  be- 
huldetii  a 
sign  in  the 
•lemeatafar 


Nor  dim  nor  red,  like  God's  own  head 

The  glorious  sun  uprist : 

1  hen  all  averred,  I  had  killed  the  bird 

Tiiat  brought  the  fog  and  mist. 

'Twas  right,  said  they,  such  birds  to  slay, 

That  bring  the  fog  and  mist. 

The  fair  breeze  blew,  the  white  foam  flew, 

The  furrow  followed  free ; 

We  were  the  first  that  ever  burst 

Into  that  silent  sea. 

Down  dropt  the    breeze,   the    sails    dropt 

down — 
'Twas  sad  as  sad  could  be  ; 
And  we  did  speak  only  to  break 
The  silence  of  the  sea. 

All  in  a  hot  and  copper  sky 
The  bloody  sun,  at  noon, 
Right  up  above  the  mast  did  stand, 
No  bigger  than  the  moon. 

Day  after  day,  day  after  day, 
We  stuck — nor  breath  nor  motion ; 
As  idle  as  a  painted  ship 
Upon  a  painted  ocean. 

Water,  water  everywhere, 
And  all  the  boards  did  shrink; 
Water,  water  everywhere, 
Nor  any  drop  to  drink. 

The  very  deep  did  rot;  O  Christ ! 
That  ever  this  should  be  ! 
Yea,  slimy  things  did  crawl  with  legs 
Upon  the  slimy  sea  ! 

About,  about,  in  reel  and  rout, 
The  death-fires  danced  at  night ; 
The  water,  like  a  witch's  oils. 
Burnt  green,  and  blue,  and  white. 

And  some  in  dreams  assurM  were 
Of  the  Spirit  that  plagued  us  so; 
Nine  fathom  deep  he  had  followed  us 
From  the  land  of  mist  and  snow. 

And  every  tongue,  through  utter  drought, 
Was  withered  at  the  root ; 
We  could  not  speak,  no  more  than  if 
We  had  been  choked  with  soot. 

Ah  !  well-a-day  !  what  evil  looks 
Had  I  from  old  and  young  ! 
Instead  of  the  cross  the  Albatross 
About  my  neck  was  hung. 


There  passed  a  weary  time.     Each  throat 
Was  parched,  and  glazed  each  eye — 
A  weary  time  !  a  weary  time  ! 
How  glazed  each  weary  eye  !— 
When,  looking  westward,  I  beheld 
A  something  in  the  sky. 


A  flash  of 
ioy. 


And  horror 
follows.  For 
can  it  be  a 
ship  that 
comes  on- 
ward with- 
out wind  or 
tidet 


At  first  it  seemed  a  little  speck, 
And  then  it  seemed  a  mist ; 
It  moved  and  moved,  and  took  at  last 
A  certain  shape,  I  wist — 

A  speck,  a  mist,  a  shape,  I  wist ! 
And  still  it  neared  and  neared  ; 
As  if  it  dodged  a  water-sprite. 
It  plunged  and  tacked  and  veered. 

With  throats  unslaked,  with  black  lips  baked,    *'  •*»  "«*"■ 

'  *^  '     er  approach 

We  could  nor  laugh  nor  wail ;  hi" t"'b?a 

Through  utter  drought  all  dumb  we  stood  !  a"(lear"rai^ 

I  bit  my  arm,  I  sucked  the  blood,  fr°e™  h'his 

And  cried,  '  A  sail !  a  sail ! '  Jh^l'i'nds"^ 

thirst. 

With  throats  unslaked,  with  black  lips  baked, 
Agape  they  heard  me  call ; 
Gramercy  1  they  for  joy  did  grin, 
And  all  at  once  their  breath  drew  in. 
As  they  were  drinking  all. 

'  See  !  see  ! '  I  cried,  '  she  tacks  no  more  ! ' 
Hither  to  work  us  weal — 
Without  a  breeze,  without  a  tide. 
She  steadies  with  upright  keel  ! ' 

The  western  wave  was  all  a-flame; 

The  day  was  well  nigh  done ; 

Almost  upon  the  western  wave 

Rested  the  broad  bright  sun. 

When  that  strange  shape  drove  suddenly 

Betwixt  us  and  the  sun. 

And  straight  the  sun  was  flecked  with  bars, 
(Heaven's  Mother  send  us  grace  !) 
As  if  through  a  dungeon-grate  he  peered 
With  broad  and  burning  face. 

Alas  !  thought  I — and  my  heart  beat  loud — 
How  fast  she  nears  and  nears  ! 
Are  those  her  sails  that  glance  in  the  sun, 
Like  restless  gossamers  ? 

Are  those  her  ribs  through  which  the  sun 
Did  peer,  as  tlirough  a  grate  ? 
And  is  that  woman  all  her  crew  ? 
Is  that  a  death  ?  and  are  there  two  ? 
Is  Death  that  woman's  mate? 

Her  lips  were  red,  her  looks  were  free, 
Her  loclcs  were  yellow  as  gold  ; 
Her  skin  was  as  white  as  leprosy : 
The  night-mare,  Life-in-Death,  was  she, 
Who  thicks  man's  blood  with  cold. 

The  naked  hulk  alongside  came. 

And  the  twain  were  casting  dice  : 

'  The  game  is  done.     I've  won  !  I've  won  ! ' 

Quoth  she,  and  whistles  thrice. 

The  sun's  rim  dips  ;  the  stars  rush  out ; 
At  one  stride  comes  the  dark  ; 
With  far-heard  whisper,  o'er  the  sea, 
Otf  shot  the  spectre-bark. 


It  seeroeth 
him  liutth* 
skeleton  of 
a  ship. 


And  its  ribs 
are  seen  as 
bars  on  the 
face  of  the 
setting  sun. 
The  spec- 
tre-woman 
and  her 
death-mate, 
and  no  other 
on  board  the 
skeleton 
ship. 

Like  vessel, 
like  crew  1 


Death  and 
Life-iu- 
Death  have 
diced  for  the 
ship's  crew, 
and  she  (the 
latter)  win- 
neth  the  An- 
cient Mari- 
ner. 

No  twilight 
within  the 
couruof  tha 
■un. 


SEA   PICTURES. 


231 


At  the  rising 
o^  the  moon. 


We  listened  and  looked  sideways  up  ! 

Fear  at  my  heart,  as  at  a  cup, 

My  life-blood  seemed  to  sip  ! 

The  stars  were  dim,  and  thick  the  night, 

The  steersman's  face  by  his  lamp  gleamed 

white ; 
From  the  sails  the  dew  did  drip — 
Till  clombe  above  the  eastern  bar. 
The  horned  moon,  with  one  bright  star 
Within  the  nether  tip. 

One  after  one,  by  the  star-dogged  moon. 
Too  quick  for  groan  or  sigh, 
Each  turned  his  face  with  a  ghastly  pang, 
And  cursed  me  with  his  eye. 

Four  times  fifty  living  men 
(And  I  heard  nor  sigh  nor  groan,) 
With  heavy  thump,  a  lifeless  lump. 
They  dropped  down  one  by  one. 

The  souls  did  from  their  bodies  fly — 
They  fled  to  bliss  or  woe  ! 
And  every  soul,  it  passed  me  by. 
Like  the  whizz  of  my  cross-bow  ! " 

PART  IV. 

"  I  fear  thee,  Ancient  Mariner ! 

I  fear  thy  skinny  hand  ! 

And  thou  art  long,  and  lank,  and  brown 

As  is  tlie  ribbed  sea-sand. 

I  fear  thee  and  thy  glittering  eye. 

And  thy  skinny  hand  so  brown." — 

"  Fear  not,  fear  not,  thou  Wedding-Guest ! 

This  body  dropt  not  down. 

Alone,  alone,  all,  all  alone, 
Alone  on  a  wide,  wide  sea  ! 
And  never  a  saint  took  pity  on 
My  soul  in  agony. 

The  many  men  so  beautiful ! 

And  they  all  dead  did  lie  : 

And  a  thousand  thousand  slimy  things 

Lived  on  ;  and  so  did  L 

I  looked  upon  the  rotting  sea. 
And  drew  my  eyes  away  ; 
^t  theT      I  looked  upon  the  rotting  deck,   . 

should  live,       ...  i  t         j  t 

and  so  many  And  there  the  dead  men  lay. 

lie  dead. 

I  looked  to  heaven,  and  tried  to  pray; 
But,  or  ever  a  prayer  had  gusht, 
A  wicked  whisper  came,  and  made 
My  heart  as  dry  as  dust. 

I  closed  my  lids,  and  kept  them  close, 

And  the  balls  like  pulses  beat ; 

For  the  sky  and  the  sea,  and  the  sea  and 

the  sky. 
Lay  like  a  load  on  my  weary  eye, 
And  the  dead  were  at  my  feet 


me  after 
another. 


his  ship- 
mates   drop 
^wn  dead. 


But  Life-in- 
Death  be- 
gins her 
worlc  on  the 
Ancient 
Mariner. 


The  Wed- 
ding-Guest 
feareth  that 
a  spirit  is 
talking  to 
him; 


but  the  An- 
cient Mari- 
ner assureth 
him  of  his 
bodily  life, 
and  pro- 
ceedeth  to 
relate  his 
horrible 
penance. 


He  despis- 
eth  the 
creatures  of 
the  calm ; 


The  cold  sweat  melted  from  their  limbs, 
Nor  rot  nor  reek  did  they  : 
The  look  with  which  they  looked  on  me 
Had  never  passed  away. 

An  orphan's  curse  would  drag  to  hell 

A  spirit  from  on  high  ; 

But  oh  !  more  horrible  than  that 

Is  a  curse  in  a  dead  man's  eye  ! 

Seven  days,  seven  nights,  I  saw  that  curse, 

And  yet  I  conld  not  die. 

The  moving  moon  went  up  the  sky, 
And  nowhere  did  abide  : 
Softly  she  was  going  up. 
And  a  star  or  two  beside — 

Her  beams  bemocked  the  sultry  main. 
Like  April  hoar-frost  spread ; 
But  where  tlie  ship's  huge  shadow  lay 
The  charmed  water  burnt  alway, 
A  still  and  awful  red. 

Beyond  the  shadow  of  the  ship 

I  watched  the  water-snakes  ; 

They  moved  in  tracks  of  shining  white ; 

And  when  they  reared,  the  elfish  light 

Fell  off  in  hoary  flakes. 

Within  the  shadow  of  the  ship 

I  watched  their  rich  attire — 

Blue,  glossy  green,  and  velvet  black. 

They  coiled  and  swam  ;  and  every  track 

Was  a  flash  of  golden  fire. 

O  happy  living  things  !  no  tongue 
Their  beauty  might  declare  ; 
A  spring  of  love  gushed  from  my  heart, 
And  I  blessed  them  unaware — 
Sure  my  kind  saint  took  pity  on  me, 
And  I  blessed  them  unaware. 

The  selfsame  moment  I  could  pray ; 
And  from  my  neck  so  free 
The  Albatross  fell  off,  and  sank 
Like  lead  into  the  sea. 

PART  V. 

0  SLEEP  I  it  is  a  gentle  thing. 
Beloved  from  pole  to  pole  ! 

To  Mary  Queen  the  praise  be  given ! 
She  sent  the  gentle  sleep  from  heaven 
That  slid  into  my  soul. 

The  silly  buckets  on  the  deck. 
That  had  so  long  remained, 

1  dreamt  that  ihey  were  filled  with  dew  ; 
And  when  I  awoke,  it  ramed. 

My  lips  were  wet,  my  throat  was  cold 
My  garments  all  were  dank  ; 
Sure  I  had  drunken  in  my  dreams 
And  still  my  body  drank. 


But  the 
curse  liretb 
fur  him  in 
the  eye  of 
the  dead 
men. 


In  his 
loneliness 
and  fiexd- 
ness  he 
yearnctli 
towards  the 
journeying 
fiirM)tt,  and 
the  stars 
that  still 
sojourn ,  yst 


he  behold- 
ech  Cod's 
creatures  of 
the  great 
calm. 


Their  beaa- 
ty  and  that 
happtoASS. 


He  blessetb 
them  in  hi* 
heart. 


The  spell 
begins  t» 
break. 


By  grace  mt 

the  holy 
Mother,  the 
Ancient 
Mariner  is 
refreshed 
wiih  raia. 


232 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


He  heareth 
sounds  and 
seeeth 
strange 
sights  and 
commotions 
in  the  sky 
and  the  ele- 
ments. 


The  bodies 
of  the  ship's 
crew  are  in- 
spired, and 
the  ship 
moves  on; 


fiut  not  by 
the  souls  of 
the  men,  nor 
by  demons 
of  earth  or 
middle  air, 
but  by  a 
blessed 
troop  of 
angelic  spif- 
itf,  sent 
down  by  the 
invocation 
v{  the  ifuar* 
ttian  samt. 


I  moved,  and  could  not  feel  my  limbs  • 
I  was  so  light — almost 
I  thought  that  I  had  died  in  sleep. 
And  was  a  blessed  ghost. 

And  soon  I  heard  a  roaring  wind — 
It  did  not  come  anear ; 
But  with  its  sound  it  shook  the  sails. 
That  were  so  thin  and  sere. 

The  upper  air  burst  into  life  ; 
And  a  hundred  fire-flags  sheen, 
To  and  fro  they  were  hurried  about ; 
And  to  and  fro,  and  in  and  out, 
The  wan  stars  danced  between. 

And  the  coming  wind  did  roar  more  loud, 

And  the  sails  did  sigh  like  sedge  ; 

And  the  rain  poured  down  from  one  black 

cloud — 
The  moon  was  at  its  edge. 

The  thick  black  cloud  was  cleft,  and  still 
The  moon  was  at  its  side  ; 
Like  waters  shot  from  some  high  crag, 
The  lightning  fell  with  never  a  jag — 
A  river  steep  and  wide. 

The  loud  wind  never  reached  the  ship, 
Yet  now  the  ship  moved  on  ! 
Beneath  the  lightning  and  the  moon 
The  dead  men  gave  a  groan. 

They  groaned,  they  stirred,  they  all  uprose — 
Nor  spake,  nor  moved  their  eyes  ; 
It  had  been  strange,  even  in  a  dream, 
To  have  seen  those  dead  men  rise. 

The  helmsman  steered,  the  ship  moved  on  ; 

Yet  never  a  breeze  up  blew ; 

The  mariners  all  'gan  work  the  ropes. 

Where  they  were  wont  to  do  ; 

They  raised  their  limbs  like  lifeless  tools — 

We  were  a  ghastly  crew. 

The  Body  of  my  brother's  son 
Stood  by  me,  knee  to  knee : 
The  Body  and  I  pulled  at  one  rope. 
But  he  said  naught  to  me." 

"  I  fear  thee,  Ancient  Mariner !  " 
"  Be  calm,  thou  Wedding-Guest ! 
'T  was  not  those  souls  that  fled  in  pain, 
Which  to  their  corses  came  again. 
But  a  troop  of  spirits  blest : 

For  when   it   dawned — they  dropped  their 

arms. 
And  clustered  round  the  mast ; 
Sweet    sounds     rose    slowly    through    their 

mouths, 
And  from  their  bodies  passed. 


Around,  around,  flew  each  sweet  sound, 
Then  darted  to  the  sun  ; 
Slowly  the  sounds  came  back  again. 
Now  mixed,  now  one  by  one. 

Sometimes  a-dropping  from  the  sky, 
I  heard  the  skylark  sing ; 
Sometimes  all  little  birds  that  are. 
How  they  seemed  to  fill  the  sea  and  air 
With  their  sweet  jargoning ! 

And  now  't  was  like  all  instruments. 
Now  like  a  lonely  flute  ; 
And  now  it  is  an  angel's  song 
That  makes  the  heavens  be  mute. 

It  ceased  ;  yet  still  the  sails  made  on 

A  pleasant  noise  till  noon, 

A  noise  like  of  a  hidden  brook 

In  the  leafy  month  of  June, 

That  to  the  sleeping  woods  all  night 

Singeth  a  quiet  tune. 

Till  noon  we  quietly  sailed  on. 
Yet  never  a  breeze  did  breathe : 
Slowly  and  smoothly  went  the  ship, 
Moved  onward  from  beneath. 

Under  the  keel  nine  fathom  deep. 
From  the  land  of  mist  and  snow. 
The  Spirit  slid  :  and  it  was  he 
That  made  the  ship  to  go. 
The  sails  at  noon  left  off"  their  tune, 
And  the  ship  stood  still  also. 

The  sun,  right  up  above  the  mast. 
Had  fixed  Iier  to  the  ocean  : 
But  in  a  minute  she  'gan  stir. 
With  a  short  uneasy  motion — 
Backwards  and  forwards  half  her  length, 
With  a  short  uneasy  motion. 

Then  like  a  pawing  horse  let  go. 
She  made  a  sudden  bound  : 
It  flung  the  blood  into  my  head 
And  I  fell  down  in  a  swound. 

How  long  in  that  same  fit  I  lay, 
I  have  not  to  declare  ; 
But  ere  my  living  life  returned, 
I  heard,  and  in  my  soul  discerned 
Two  voices  in  the  air. 

'Is  it  he  ? '  quoth  one,  '  Is  this  the  man  ? 
By  Him  who  died  on  cross, 
With  his  cruel  bow  he  laid  full  low 
The  harmless  Albatross ! 

The  Spirit  who  bideth  by  himself 
In  the  land  of  mist  and  snow, 
He  loved  the  bird  that  loved  the  man 
Who  shot  him  with  his  bow.' 


The  lone- 
some spirit 
from  the 
south  pole 
carries  on 
the  ship  as 
far  as  tne 
line,  in  obe- 
dience to 
the  angelic 
troop,  but 
still  requir- 
eth  ven- 
geance. 


The  Polar 
Spirit's  fel- 
low-de- 
mons, the 
invisible  in- 
habitants d 
theolcmci  , 
tal<e  part  % 
his  wrong  . 
and  two  t>f 
them  rela.e, 
one  to  tlie 
other,  that 

f)cn.ince 
ong  and 
heavy  for 
the  Ancient 
Mariner 
hath  been 
accorded  to 
the  Polar 
Spirit,  who 
rettimeth 
southwiird. 


SEA   PICTURES. 


233 


The  other  was  a  softer  voice, 

As  soft  as  honey-dew  : 

Quoth  he,  '  The  man  hath  penance  done, 

And  penance  more  will  do.' 


PART  VI. 
FIRST  VOICB. 


TheMarinet 
hath  been 
cast  into  a 
trance ;  for 
the  angelic 
power  caus- 
eth  the  ves- 
sel to  drive 
northward 
faster  than 
human  life 
could  en- 
dure. 


'  But  tell  me,  tell  me  !  speak  again, 
Thy  soft  response  renewing — 
What  makes  that  ship  drive  on  so  fast  ? 
What  is  the  ocean  doing  ? ' 

SECOND  VOICE. 

'  Still  as  a  slave  before  his  lord. 
The  ocean  hath  no  blast ; 
His  great  bright  eye  most  silently 
Up  to  the  moon  is  cast — 

If  he  may  know  which  way  to  go ; 
For  she  guides  him  smooth  or  grim. 
See,  brother,  see  !  how  graciously 
She  looketh  down  on  him.' 

FIRST  VOICB. 

'  But  why  drives  on  that  ship  so  fast, 
Without  or  wave  or  wind  ?' 

SECOND   VOICE. 

'  The  air  is  cut  away  before, 
And  closes  from  behind. 

Fly,  brother,  fly  !  more  high,  more  high  ! 
Or  we  shall  be  belated  ; 
For  slow  and  slow  that  ship  will  go. 
When  the  Mariner's  trance  is  abated.' 


The  super-     I  woke,  and  we  were  sailing  on 

natural  mo*       «       .  .,  .1      _ 

tion  is  re-      As  m  E  gentle  weather  ; 

Marfne'r '  °   'Twas  night,  Calm  night — the  moon  was  high ; 

h!s*plnan"e  The  dead  men  stood  together. 

begins 
anew. 

All  stood  together  on  the  deck, 
For  a  charnel-dungeon  fitter  ; 
All  fixed  on  me  their  stony  eyes. 
That  in  the  moon  did  glitter. 

The  pang,  the  curse,  with  which  they  died, 
Had  never  passed  away  ; 
I  could  not  draw  my  eyes  from  theirs, 
Nor  turn  them  up  to  pray. 

_^  And  now  this  spell  was  snapt ;  once  more 

The  curse  is  _  "^  '^     ' 

finally  ex-      I  vicwcd  the  oceaii  ereen, 

puted.  °  ' 

And  looked  far  forth,  yet  little  saw 
Of  what  had  else  been  seen — 


Like  one  that  on  a  lonesome  road 

Doth  walk  in  fear  and  dread, 

And,  having  once  turned  round,  walks  on. 

And  turns  no  more  his  head ; 

Because  he  knows  a  frightful  fiend 

Doth  close  behind  him  tread. 


But  soon  there  breathed  a  wind  on  me. 
Nor  sound  nor  motion  made ; 
Its  path  was  not  upon  the  sea, 
In  ripple  or  in  shade. 

It  raised  my  hair,  it  fanned  my  cheek, 
Like  a  meadow-gale  of  spring — 
It  mmgled  strangely  with  my  fears. 
Yet  it  felt  like  a  welcoming. 

Swiftly,  swiftly  flew  the  ship. 
Yet  she  sailed  softly  too  ; 
Sweetly,  sweetly  blew  the  breeze — 
On  me  alone  it  blew. 

O  dream  of  joy  !  is  this  indeed 
The  light-house  top  1  see  j" 
Is  this  the  hill  f  is  this  the  kirk? 
Is  this  mine  own  countree? 

We  drifted  o'er  the  harbor-bar. 
And  I  with  sobs  did  pray — 

0  let  me  be  awake,  my  God ! 
Or  let  me  sleep  alway. 

The  harbor-bay  was  clear  as  glass. 
So  smoothly  it  was  strewn  ! 
And  on  the  bay  the  moonlight  lay, 
And  the  shadow  of  the  moon. 

The  rock  shone  bright,  the  kirk  no  less 
That  stands  above  the  rock  ; 
Thsi  moonlight  steeped  in  silentness 
The  steady  weathercock. 

And  the  bay  was  white  with  silent  light, 
Till  rising  from  the  same, 
Full  many  shapes,  that  shadows  were. 
In  crimson  colors  came. 

A  little  distance  from  the  prow 
Those  crimson  shadows  were : 

1  turned  my  eyes  upon  the  deck — 

0  Christ  1  what  saw  I  there  1 

Each  corse  lay  flat,  lifeless  and  flat, 
And,  by  the  holy  rood  ! 
A  man  all  light,  a  seraph  man. 
On  every  corse  there  stood. 

This  seraph-band,  each  waved  his  hand  : 

It  was  a  heavenly  sight ! 

They  stood  as  signals  to  the  land, 

E^ch  one  a  lovely  light  ;^  , 

This  seraph  band,  each  waved  his  hand. 
No  voice  did  they  impart — 
No  voice  ;  but  oh  !  the  silence  sank 
Like  music  on  my  heart. 

But  soon  I  heard  the  dash  of  oars, 

1  heard  the  pilot's  cheer  ; 

My  head  was  turned  perforce  away. 
And  I  saw  a  boat  appear. 


And  the  An- 
cient Mari- 
ner behold- 
eth  his  ni- 
tivecoBntiK 


The  angelic 
luirits  leave 
the  dead 
bodies, 

and  appear 
in  their  owm 
forms  of 
light. 


334 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


The  hermit 
ot  the  wood 


The  pilot  and  the  pilot's  boy, 
I  heard  them  coming  fast : 
Dear  Lord  in  Heaven  !  it  was  a  joy 
The  dead  men  could  not  blast. 

I  saw  a  third— I  heard  his  voice  • 

It  is  the  hermit  good ! 

He  singeth  loud  his  Godly  hymns 

That  he  makes  in  the  wood. 

He'll  shrivee  my  soul,  he'll  wash  away 

The  Albatross'  blood. 

PART  VII. 

This  hermit  good  lives  in  that  wood 
Which  slopes  down  to  the  sea. 
How  loudly  his  sweet  voice  he  rears  ! 
He  loves  to  talk  with  marineres 
That  come  from  a  far  countree. 

He  kneels  at  morn,  and  noon,  and  eve — 

He  hath  a  cushion  plump  : 

It  is  the  moss  that  wholly  hides 

The  rotted  old  oak-stump. 

The  skifT-boat  neared  :  I  heard  them  talk, 
'  Why,  this  is  strange,  I  trow  ! 
Where  are  those  lights  so  many  and  fair 
That  signal  made  but  now?' 


approacheth    'Strange,  by  my  faith  ! '  the  hermit  said — 

the  ship  1 

with  won.      'And  they  answered  not  our  cheer  ! 

The  planks  looked  warped  I  and  see  those 

sails 
How  thin  they  are  and  sere  ! 
I  never  saw  aught  like  to  them, 
Unless  perchance  it  were 

Brown  skeletons  of  leaves  that  lag 
My  forest- brook  along  ; 
When  the  ivy-tod  is  heavy  with  snow, 
And  the  owlet  whoops  to  the  wolf  below, 
That  eats  the  she-wolf's  young.' 

'  Dear  Lord  !  it  hath  a  fiendish  look 
(The  pilot  made  reply) — 
I  am  a-feared.' — '  Push  on,  push  on  ! ' 
Said  the  hermit  cheerily. 

The  boat  came  closer  to  the  ship, 
But  I  nor  spake  nor  stirred ; 
The  boat  came  close  beneath  the  ship, 
And  straight  a  sound  was  heard.  "* 


The  ship 
auddenlj 


Under  the  water  it  rumbled  on, 
Still  louder  and  more  dread  : 
,  It  reached  the  ship,  it  split  the  bay  ; 

The  ship  went  down  like  lead. 

The  Ancient  Stunucd  by  that  loud  and  dreadful  sound, 

Manner  is  •' 

Si't? '"  "\«   Which  sky  and  ocean  smote, 

pilot  s  boat.  ■'  ' 

Like  one  that  hath  been  seven  days  drowned 
My  body  lay  afloat ; 


But  swift  as  dreams,  myself  I  found 
Within  the  pilot's  boat. 

Upon  the  whirl  where  sank  the  ship 
The  boat  span  round  and  round  ; 
And  all  was  still,  save  that  the  hill 
Was  telling  of  the  sound. 

I  moved  my  lips — the  pilot  shrieked 
And  fell  down  in  a  fit ; 
Tlie  holy  hermit  raised  his  eyes, 
And  prayed  where  he  did  sit. 

I  took  the  oars ;  the  pilot's  boy, 

Who  now  doth  crazy  go, 

Laughed  loud  and  long  ;  and  all  the  while 

His  eyes  went  to  and  fro  : 

*.Ha  I  ha  ! '  quoth  he,  'full  plain  I  see, 

The  Devil  knows  how  to  row.' 

And  now,  all  in  my  own  countree, 
I  stood  on  the  firm  land ! 
The  hermit  stepped  forth  from  the  boat, 
And  scarcely  he  could  stand. 

'O  shrieve  me,  shrieve  me,  holy  man  P — 
The  hermit  crossed  his  brow  : 
'Say  quick,'  quoth  he,  'I  bid  thee  say — 
What  manner  of  man  art  thou  ? ' 

Forthwith  this  frame  of  mine  was  wrenched 
With  a  woeful  agony, 
Which  forced  me  to  begin  my  tale — 
And  then  it  left  me  free. 

Since  then,  at  an  uncertain  hour, 
That  agony  returns ; 
And  till  my  ghastly  tale  is  told 
This  heart  within  me  burns. 

I  pass,  like  night,  from  land  to  land ; 
I  have  strange  power  of  speech ; 
That  moment  that  his  face  I  see 
I  know  the  man  that  must  hear  me — 
To  him  my  tale  I  teach. 

What  loud  uproar  bursts  from  that  door ! 
The  wedding-guests  are  there  ; 
But  in  the  garden-bower  the  Bride 
And  bride-maids  singing  are  ; 
And  hark  the  little  vesper  bell. 
Which  biddeth  me  to  prayer  ! 

O  Wedding-Guest !  this  soul  hath  been 
Alone  on  a  wide,  wide  sea — 
So  lonely  't  was,  that  God  himself 
Scarce  seemed  there  to  be. 

O  sweeter  than  the  marriage-feast, 
'T  is  sweeter  far  to  me. 
To  walk  together  to  the  kirk 
With  a  goodly  company  ! — 


The  Ancient 
Mirjiicreir- 
nesily  cn- 
trcatctli   ilie 
liermit  to 

and  tlieiwn- 
anceoflile 
falls  uniiim. 


And  CYcr 
and  aiioa 
throughout 
his  future- 
life  an  u^o- 
ny  con- 
straincth 
him  to  travel 
from  land  to 
land. 


SEA  PICTURES. 


235 


To  walk  together  to  the  kirk, 

And  all  together  pray. 

While  each  to  his  great  Father  bends — 

Old  men,  and  babes,  and  loving  friends, 

And  youths  and  maidens  gay  ! 

Md  toteach   Farcwell !  farewell !  but  this  I  tell* 

by  his  own 

example.       To  thee,  thou  Weddnig-Guest ! 

love  and  '  ^ 

rererenceto     J-Jc  prayCth  Well  who  lOVCth  Wcll 

Both  man  and  bird  and  beast. 


all  things 
that  God 
made  and 
V»reth. 


He  prayeth  best  who  loveth  best 
All  things  both  great  and  small ; 
For  the  dear  God  who  loveth  us, 
He  made  and  loveth  all." 

The  Mariner,  whose  eye  is  bright, 
Whose  beard  with  age  is  hoar. 
Is  gone.     And  now  the  Wedding-Guest 
Turned  from  the  Bridegroom's  door. 

He  went  like  one  that  hath  been  stunned, 
And  is  of  sense  forlorn  ; 
A  sadder  and  a  wiser  man 
He  rose  the  morrow  morn. 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge. 


POOR  JACK. 

^TKt  O,  patter  to  lubbers  and  swabs,  do  ye  see, 
1*4^1         'Bout  danger,  and  fear,  and  the  like  ; 
^  ^     A  tight-water  boat  and  good  sea  room  give 
me, 

And  it  a'n't  to  a  little  I'll  strike. 
Though  the  tempest  topgallant-masts  smack  smooth 
should  smite. 

And  shiver  each  splinter  of  wood, 
Clear  the  deck,  stow  the  yards,  and  bouse  everything 
tight. 

And  under  reefed  foresail  we'll  scud  : 
Avast !  nor  don't  think  me  a  milksop  so  soft 

To  be  taken  for  trifles  aback ; 
For  they  say  there's  a  Providence  sits  up  aloft, 

To  keep  watch  for  the  life  of  poor  Jack ! 

I  heard  our  good  chaplain  palaver  one  day, 

About  souls,  heaven,  mercy,  and  such  ; 
And,  my  timbers  !  what  lingo  he'd  coil  and  belay  ; 

Why,  't  was  just  all  as  one  as  High  Dutch  ; 
For  he  said  how  a  sparrow  can't  founder,  d'ye  see. 

Without  orders  that  come  down  below  ; 
And  a  many  fine  things  that  proved  clearly  to  me 

That  Providence  takes  us  in  tow  : 
"For,"  says  he,  do  you  mind  me,  "let  storms  e'er  so 
oft 

Take  the  topsails  of  sailors  aback. 
There's  a  sweet  little  cherub  that  sits  up  aloft. 

To  keep  watch  for  tlie  life  of  poor  Jack  ! " 

I  said  to  our  Poll — for,  d'ye  see,  she  would  cry — 
When  last  we  weighed  anchor  for  sea. 


"What  argufies  sniveling  and  piping  your  eye? 

Why,  what  a  blamed  fool  you  must  be  ! 
Can't  you  see,  the  world's  wide,  and  there's  room  for 
us  all, 

Both  for  seamen  and  lubbers  ashore  ? 
And  if  to  old  Davy,  I  should  go,  friend  Poll, 

You  never  will  hear  of  me  more. 
What  then  ?    All's  a  hazard  :  come,  don't  be  so  soft  : 

Perhaps  I  may  laughing  come  back  ; 
For,  d'ye  see,  there's  a  cherub  sits  smiling  aloft. 

To  keep  watch  for  the  life  of  poor  Jack  !  " 

D'ye  mind  me,  a  sailor  should  be  every  inch 

All  as  one  as  a  piece  of  the  ship, 
And  with  her  brave  the  world,  not  offering  to  flinch 

From  the  moment  the  anchor's  a-ti  ip. 
As  for  me,  in  all  weathers,  all  times,  sides,  and  ends. 

Naught's  a  trouble  from  duty  that  springs. 
For  my  heart  is  my  Poll's,  and  my  rhino's  my  friend's. 

And  as  for  my  will,  't  is  the  king's. 
Even  when  my  time  comes,  ne'er  believe  me  so  soft 

As  lor  grief  to  be  taken  aback ; 
For  the  same  little  cherub  that  sits  up  aloft 

Will  look  out  a  good  berth  for  poor  Jack  ! 

Charles  Dibdin. 


NAPOLEON  AND  THE  BRITISH  SAILOR. 

LOVE  contemplating — apart 

From  all  his  homicidal  glory — 
The  traits  that  soften  to  our  heart 
Napoleon's  glory ! 

'Twas  when  his  banners  at  Boulogne 
Armed  in  our  island  every  freeman, 
His  navy  chanced  to  capture  one 
Poor  British  seaman. 

They  suffered  him — I  know  not  how — 

Unprisoned  on  the  shore  to  roam  ; 
And  aye  was  bent  his  longing  brow 
On  England's  home. 

His  eye,  methinks,  pursued  the  flight 

Of  birds  to  Britain  half-way  over  ; 
With  envy  i/iry  could  reach  the  white 
Dear  cliffs  of  Dover. 

A  stormy  midnight  watch,  he  thought. 

Than  this  sojourn  would  have  been  dearer, 
If  but  the  .storm  his  vessel  brought 
To  England  nearer. 

At  last,  when  care  had  banished  sleep. 

He  saw  one  morning,  dreaming,  doting, 
An  empty  hogshead  from  the  deep 
Come  shoreward  floating ; 

He  hid  it  in  a  cave,  and  wrought 

The  livelong  day  laborious;  lurking 
Until  he  launched  a  tiny  boat 
By  mighty  working. 


23G 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


Heaven  help  as  ?  't  was  a  thing  beyond 
Description  wretched  ;  such  a  wherry 
Perhaps  ne'er  ventured  on  a  pond, 
Or  crossed  a  ferry. 

For,  ploughing  in  the  s  ilt-sea  field. 

It  would  have  made  tne  boldest  shudder  ; 
Untarred,  uncompassed,  and  unkeeled — 
No  sail,  no  rudder. 

From  neighboring  woods  he  interlaced 
His  sorry  skifTwith  wattled  wiilows  ; 
And  ihus  equipped  he  would  have  passed 
The  foaming  billows — 

But  Frenchmen  caught  him  on  the  bt^ach, 

His  little  Argo  sorely  jeering  ; 
fill  tidings  of  him  chanced  to  reach 
Napoleon's  hearing. 

With  folded  arms  Napoleon  stood. 

Serene  alike  in  peace  and  danger ; 
And,  in  his  wonted  attitude, 
Addressed  the  stranger  : — 

*>  Rash  man,  that  wouldst  yon  channel  pass 
On  twigs  and  staves  so  rudely  fashionwd^ 
rhy  heart  with  some  sweet  British  lass 
Must  be  impassioned." 

"  1  have  no  sweetheart,"  said  the  lad  ; 

"  But — absent  long  from  one  another-^ 
Great  was  the  longing  that  I  had 
To  see  my  mother." 

"  And  so  thou  shalt,"  Napoleon  said, 
"  Ye've  both  my  favor  fairly  won  ; 
A  noble  mother  must  have  bred 
So  brave  a  son." 

He  gave  the  tar  a  piece  of  gold. 

And,  with  a  flag  of  truce,  commanded 
He  should  be  shipped  to  England  Old, 
And  safely  landed. 

Our  sailor  oft  could  scarcely  shift 

To  find  a  dinner,  plain  and  hearty, 
But  never  changed  the  coin  and  gift 
Of  Bonaparte. 

Thomas  Campbell. 


llJ 


SUNRISE  AT  SEA. 

HEN  the  mild  weather  came, 
And  set  the  sea  on  flame. 

How  often  would  I  rise  before  the  sun. 
And  from  the  masts  behold 
The  gradual  splendors  of  the  sky  unfold, 
Ere  the  first  line  of  disk  had  yet  begun, 
Above  the  horizon's  arc, 

To  show  its  flaming  gold. 
Across  the  purple  dark  1 


One  perfect  dawn  how  well  I  recollect, 
When  the  whole  East  was  flecked 

With  flashing  streaks  and  shafts  of  amethyst, 

While  a  light  crimson  mist 
Went  up  before  the  mountain  luminary, 
And  all  tlie  strips  of  cloud  began  to  vary 

Their  hues,  and  all  the  zenith  seemed  to  open. 

As  if  to  show  a  cope  beyond  the  cope ! 

How  reverently  calm  the  ocean  lay 
At  the  bright  birth  of  that  celestial  day ! 

How  every  little  vapor,  robed  in  state, 

Would  melt  and  dissipate 
Before  the  augmenting  ray, 

Till  the  victorious  orb  rose  unattended. 

And  every  billow  was  his  mirror  splendid  ! 

Epes  Sargent. 


(2 


THE   STORM. 

EASE,  rude  Boreas,  blustering  railer  ! 

List,  ye  landsman  all,  to  me  ; 

Messmates,  hear  a  brother  sailor 

Sing  the  dangers  of  the  sea  ; 


From  bounding  billows,  first  in  motion. 
When  the  distant  whirlwinds  rise. 

To  the  tempest-troubled  ocean, 
Where  the  seas  contend  with  skies. 

Hark  !  the  boatswain  hoarsely  bawling. 
By  topsail-sheets  and  halyards  stand  ! 

Down  top-gallants  quick  be  hauling  ! 

Down  your  stay-sails — hand,  boys,  hand  ! 

Now  it  freshens,  set  the  braces. 
Quick  the  topsail-sheets  let  go  ; 

Luff",  boys,  luff !  don't  make  wry  faces, 
Up  your  topsails  nimbly  clew. 

Round  us  roars  the  tempest  louder. 
Think  what  fear  our  minds  inthralls ! 

Harder  yet  it  blows,  still  harder, 
Now  again  the  boatswain  calls. 

The  topsail-yard  point  to  the  wind,  boys 
See  all  clear  to  reef  each  course  ; 

Let  the  foresheet  go — don't  mind,  boys, 
Though  the  weather  should  be  worse. 

Fore  and  aft  the  spritsail-yard  get, 

Reef  the  mizzen,  see  all  clear ; 
Hand  up,  each  preventer-brace  set ! 

Man  the  foreyards,  cheer,  lads,  cheer ! 

Now  the  dreadful  thunder's  roaring. 

Peal  on  peal  contending  clash. 
On  our  heads  fierce  rain  falls  pouring, 

In  our  eyes  blue  lightnings  flash. 


SEA   PICTURES. 


237 


One  wide  water  all  around  us. 

All  above  us  one  black  sky ; 
Different  deaths  at  once  surround  us  : 

Hark  !  what  means  that  dreadful  cry  ? 

The  foremast's  gone  !  cries  every  tongue  out, 

O'er  the  lee  twelve  feet  'bove  deck  ; 
A  leak  beneath  the  chest-tree's  sprung  out, 

Call  all  hands  to  clear  the  wreck. 

Quick  the  lanyards  cut  to  pieces  ; 

Come,  my  hearts,  be  stout  and  bold  ; 
Plumb  the  well— the  leak  increases, 

Four  feet  water  in  the  hold  1 

While  o'er  the  ship  wild  waves  are  beating, 

We  our  wives  and  children  mourn  ; 
Alas  !  from  hence  there's  no  retreating, 

Alas  !  to  them  there's  no  return  ! 

Still  the  leak  is  gaining  on  us  ! 

Both  chain-pumps  are  choked  below : 
Heaven  have  mercy  here  upon  us  ! 

For  only  that  can  save  us  now. 

O'er  the  lee-beam  is  the  land,  boys, 

Let  the  guns  o'erboard  be  thrown ; 
To  the  pumps  call  every  hand,  boys. 

See  !  our  mizzen-mast  is  gone. 

The  leak  we've  found,  it  cannot  pour  fast ; 

We've  lightened  her  a  foot  or  more ; 
Up  and  rig  a  jury  foremast, 

She's  rights  1  she's  rights,  boys  !  we're  offshore, 
George  Alexander  Stevens. 


THE  SEA  IN  CALM  AND  STORM. 

ARIOUS  and  vast,  sublime  in  all  its  forms, 
[!^^     When  lulled  by  zephyrs,  or  when  roused  by 
storms ; 

Its  colors  changing,  when  from  clouds  and  sun 
Shades  after  shades  upon  the  surface  run  ; 
Embrowned  and  horrid  now,  and  now  serene 
In  limpid  blue  and  evanescent  green  ; 
And  oft  the  foggy  banks  on  ocean  lie, 
Lift  the  fair  sail,  and  cheat  the  experienced  eye  ! 

Be  it  the  summer  noon  ;  a  sandy  space 
The  ebbing  tide  has  left  upon  its  place  ; 
Then  just  the  hot  and  stony  beach  above. 
Light,  twinkling  streams  in  bright  confusion  move ; 
(For,  heated  thus,  the  warmer  air  ascends, 
And  with  the  cooler  in  its  fall  contends). 
Then  the  broad  bosom  of  the  ocean  keeps 
An  equal  motion ;  swelling  as  it  sleeps, 
Then  slowly  sinking  ;  curling  to  the  strand, 
Faint,  lazy  waves  o'ercreep  the  ridgy  sand, 
Or  tap  the  tarry  boat  with  gentle  blow, 
And  back  return  in  silence,  smooth  and  slow. 
Ships  in  the  calm  seem  anchored  ;  for  they  glide 
On  the  still  sea,  urged  solely  by  the  tide. 


View  now  the  winter  storm !    Above,  one  cloud, 
Black  and  unbroken,  all  the  skies  o'ershroud  ; 
The  unwieldly  porpoise,  through  the  day  before. 
Had  rolled  in  view  of  boding  men  on  shore  ; 
And  sometimes  hid  and  sometimes  showed  his  form, 
Dark  as  the  cloud,  and  furious  as  the  storm. 

All  where  the  eye  delights,  yet  dreads,  to  roam 
The  breaking  billows  cast  the  flying  foam 
Upon  the  billows  rising — all  the  deep 
Is  restless  change— the  waves,  so  swelled  and  steep, 
Breaking  and  sinking  and  the  sunken  swells, 
Nor  one,  one  moment,  in  its  station  dwells  : 
But  nearer  land  you  may  the  billows  trace. 
As  if  contending  in  their  watery  chase  ; 
May  watch  the  mightiest  till  the  shoal  they  reach, 
Then  break  and  hurry  to  their  utmost  stretch  ; 
Curled  as  they  come,  they  strike  with  furious  force, 
And  then,  reflowing,  take  their  grating  course, 
Raking  the  rounded  flints,  which  ages  past 
Rolled  by  their  rage,  and  shall  to  ages  last. 

Far  off,  the  petrel,  in  the  troubled  way. 
Swims  with  her  brood,  or  flutters  in  the  spray  ; 
She  rises  often,  often  drops  again, 
And  sports  at  ease  on  the  tempestuous  main. 

High  o'er  the  restless  deep,  above  the  reach 
Of  gunner's  hope,  vast  flights  of  wild  ducks  stretch  ; 
Far  as  the  eye  can  glance  on  either  side. 
In  a  broad  space  and  level  line  they  glide  ; 
All  in  their  wedge-like  figures  from  the  north. 
Day  after  day,  flight  after  flight,  go  forth. 

Inshore  their  passage  tribes  of  sea-gulls  urge, 
And  drop  for  prey  within  the  sweeping  surge  ; 
Oft  in  the  rough,  opposing  blast  they  fly 
Far  back,  then  turn,  and  all  their  force  apply, 
While  to  the  storm  they  give  their  weak,  complaining 

cry; 
Or  clap  the  sleek  white  pinion  to  the  breast, 
And  in  the  restless  ocean  dip  for  rest. 

George  Crabbe. 

A  LIFE  ON  THE  OCEAN  WAVE. 


LIFE  on  the  ocean  wave, 

A  home  on  the  rolling  deep  ; 
Where  the  scattered  waters  rave, 

And  the  winds  their  revels  keep  ! 
Like  an  angel  caged  I  pine, 

On  this  dull,  unchanging  shore  : 
O,  give  me  the  flashing  brine, 

The  spray  and  the  tempest's  roar ! 

Once  more  on  the  deck  I  stand, 

Of  my  own  swift  gliding  craft : 
Set  sail !  farewell  to  the  land  ; 

The  gale  follows  fair  abaft. 
We  shoot  through  the  sparkling  foam, 

Like  an  ocean-bird  set  free, — 
Like  the  ocean-bird,  our  home 

We'll  find  far  out  on  the  sea. 


238 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


The  land  is  no  longer  in  view, 
The  clouds  have  begun  to  frown  ; 

But  with  a  stout  vessel  and  crew, 
We'll  say,  "  Let  the  storm  come  down  !" 

And  the  song  of  our  hearts  shall  be, 
While  the  winds  and  the  waters  rave, 

A  home  on  the  rolling  sea  ! 

A  life  on  the  ocean  wave  ! 

Epes  Sargent. 


NIGHT  AT  SEA. 

'HE  lovely  purple  of  the  noon's  bestowing 

Has  vanished  from  the   waters,    where  it 
flung 

^        A  royal  color,  such  as  gems  are  throwing 
Tyrian  or  regal  garniture  among. 
'Tis  night,  and  overhead  the  sky  is  gleaming. 

Through  the  slight  vapor  trembles  each  dim  star ; 
I  turn  away — my  heart  is  sadly  dreaming 
Of  scenes  they  do  not  light,  of  scenes  afar. 
My  friends,  my  absent  friends  ! 
Do  you  think  of  me,  as  I  think  of  you  ? 

By  each  dark  wave  around  the  vessel  sweeping. 

Farther  am  I  from  old  dear  friends  removed  ; 
Till  the  lone  vigil  that  I  now  am  keeping, 

I  did  not  know  how  much  you  were  beloved. 
How  many  acts  of  kindness  little  heeded. 

Kind  looks,  kind  words,  rise  half  reproachful  now  ! 
Hurried  and  anxious,  my  vexed  life  has  speeded. 

And  memory  wears  a  soft  accusing  brow. 
My  friends,  my  absent  friends ! 
Do  you  think  of  me,  as  I  think  of  you? 

The  very  stars  are  strangers,  as  I  catch  them 

Athwart  the  shadowy  sails  that  swell  above  ; 
I  cannot  hope  that  other  eyes  will  watch  them 

At  the  same  moment  with  a  mutual  love. 
They  shine  not  there,  as  here  they  now  are  shining  ; 

The  very  hours  are  changed. — Ah,  do  you  sleep? 
O'er  each  home  pillow  midnight  is  declining — 

May  some  kind  dream  at  least  my  image  keep ! 
My  friends,  my  absent  friends  ! 
Do  you  think  of  me,  as  I  think  of  you  ? 

Yesterday  has  a  charm,  to-day  could  never 

Fling  o'er  the  mind,  which  knows  not  till  it  parts 
yow  it  turns  back  with  tenderest  endeavor 

To  fix  the  past  within  the  heart  of  hearts. 
Absence  is  full  of  memory,  it  teaches 

The  value  of  all  old  familiar  things ; 
The  strengthener  of  affection,  while  it  reaches 

O'er  the  dark  parting,  with  an  angel's  wings. 
My  friends,  my  absent  friends  ! 

Do  you  think  of  me,  as  I  think  of  you? 

The  world,  with  one  vast  element  omitted — 
Man's  own  especial  element,  the  earth  ; 

Yet,  o'er  the  waters  is  his  rule  transmitted 
By  that  great  knowledge  whence  has  power  its  birth. 


How  oft  on  some  strange  loveliness  while  gazing 

Have  I  wished  for  you — beautiful  as  new. 
The  purple  waves  like  some  wild  army  raising 
Their  snowy  banners  as  the  ship  cuts  through. 
My  friends,  my  absent  friends  ! 
Do  you  think  of  me,  as  I  think  of  you? 

The  sword-fish  and  the  shark  pursue  their  slaugh- 
ters. 
War  universal  reigns  these  depths  along. 
Like  some  new  island  on  the  ocean  springing, 

Floats  on  the  surface  some  gigantic  whale. 
From  its  vast  head  a  silver  fountain  flinging, 
Bright  as  the  fountain  in  a  fairy  tale. 
My  friends,  my  absent  friends  1 
I  read  such  fairy  legends  while  with  you, 

Light  is  amid  the  gloomy  canvas  spreading. 

The  moon  is  whitening  the  dusky  sails. 
From  the  thick  bank  of  clouds  she  masters,  sheddmg 

The  softest  influence  that  o'er  night  prevails. 
Pale  is  she  like  a  young  queen  pale  with  splendor. 

Haunted  with  passionate  thoughts  too  fond,  too  deep , 
The  very  glory  that  she  wears  is  tender. 
The  very  eyes  that  watch  her   beauty  fain  would 
weep. 
My  friends,  my  absent  friends  ! 
Do  you  think  of  me,  as  I  think  of  you  ? 

Sunshine  is  ever  cheerful,  when  the  morning 

Wakens  the  world  with  cloud-dispelling  eyes; 
The  spirits  mount  to  glad  endeavor,  scorning 

What  toil  upon  a  path  so  sunny  lies. 
Sunshine  and  hope  are  comrades,  and  their  weather 

Calls  into  life  an  energy  like  spring's ; 
But  memory  and  moonlight  go  together, 

Reflected  in  the  light  that  either  brings. 
My  friends,  my  absent  friends  ! 
Do  you  think  of  me  then  ?    I  think  of  you. 

The  busy  deck  is  hushed,  no  sounds  are  waking 

But  the  watch  pacing  silently  and  slow ; 
The  waves  against  the  sides  incessant  breaking, 

And  rope  and  canvas  swaying  to  and  fro. 
The  topmast-sail,  it  seems  like  some  dim  pinnacle 

Cresting  a  shadowy  tower  amid  the  air  ; 
While  red  and  fitful  gleams  come  from  the  binnacle. 

The  only  light  on  board  to  guide  us — where? 
My  friends,  my  absent  friends  1 
Far  from  my  native  land,  and  far  from  you. 

On  one  side  of  the  ship,  the  moonbeam's  skimmer 

In  luminous  vibrations  sweeps  the  sea, 
But  where  the  shadow  falls,  a  strange,  pale  gllnnner 

Seems,  glow-worm  like,  amid  the  waves  to  be. 
All  that  the  spirit  keeps  of  thought  and  feeling, 

Takes  visionary  hues  from  such  an  hour  ; 
But  while  some  phantasy  is  o'er  me  stealing, 

I  start — remembrance  has  a  keener  power : 
My  friends  1  my  absent  friends  I 
From  the  fair  dream  I  start  to  think  of  you. 


/ 


SEA   PICTURES. 


239 


A  dusk  line  in  the  moonli2ht — I  discover 

What  all  day  long  vainly  I  sought  to  catch  ; 
Or  is  it  but  the  varying  clouds  that  hover 

Thick  in  the  air,  to  mock  the  eyes  that  watch  ? 
No  ;  well  the  sailor  knows  each  speck,  appearing. 

Upon  the  tossing  waves,  the  far-off  strand ; 
To  that  dark  line  our  eager  ship  is  steering. 

Her  voyage  done— to  morrow  we  shall  land. 

Letitia  Elizabeth  Landon. 

HILDA.  SPINNING. 

PINNING,  spinning,  by  the  sea, 
All  the  night  1 
On  a  stormy,  rock-ribbed  shore, 
Where  the  north-winds  downward  pour. 
And  the  tempests  fiercely  sweep 
From  the  mountains  to  the  deep, 
Hilda  spins  beside  the  sea. 
All  the  night  I 

Spinning,  at  her  lonely  window, 

By  the  sea  I 
With  her  candle  burning  clear, 
Every  night  of  all  the  year, 
And  her  sweet  voice  crooning  low 
Quaint  old  songs  of  love  and  woe, 
Spins  she  at  her  lonely  window 

By  the  sea. 

On  a  bitter  night  in  March, 

Long  ago, 
Hilda,  very  young  and  fair. 
With  a  crown  of  golden  hair, 
Watched  the  tempest  raging  wild, 
Watched  the  roaring  sea — and  smiled — 
Through  that  woful  night  in  March, 

Long  ago  I 

WTiat,  though  all  the  winds  were  out 

In  their  might? 
Richard's  boat  was  tried  and  true  ; 
Staunch  and  brave  his  hardy  crew ; 
Strongest  he  to  do  or  dare. 
Said  she,  breathing  forth  a  prayer  : 
"  He  is  safe,  though  winds  are  out 
In  their  might !  " 

But,  at  length,  the  morning  dawned 

Still  and  clear ; 
Calm,  in  azure  splendor,  lay 
All  the  waters  of  the  bay ; 
And  the  ocean's  an;4ry  moans 
Sank  to  solemn  undertones, 
As,  at  last,  the  morning  dawned 

Still  and  clear  1 

With  her  waves  of  golden  hair 

Floating  free, 
Hilda  ran  along  the  shore, 
Gazing  off  the  waters  o'er ; 


And  the  fishermen  replied  : 
"He  will  come  in  with  the  tide," 
As  they  saw  her  golden  hair 
Floating  free ! 

Ah  !  he  came  in  with  the  tide, 

Came  alone ! 
Tossed  upon  the  shining  sands, 
Ghastly  face  and  clutching  hands. 
Seaweed  tangled  in  his  hair, 
Bruised  and  torn  his  forehead  fair — 
Thus  he  came  in  with  the  tide. 

All  alone  1 

Hilda  watched  beside  her  dead 

Day  and  night. 
Of  those  hours  of  mortal  woe 
Human  ken  may  never  know  ; 
She  was  silent,  and  his  ear 
Kept  the  secret,  close  and  dear, 
Of  her  watch  beside  her  dead, 

Day  and  night ! 

What  she  promised  in  the  darkness, 

Who  can  tell  ? 
But  upon  that  rock-ribbed  shore 
Bums  a  beacon  evermore ; 
And,  beside  it,  all  tlie  night, 
Hilda  guards  the  lonely  light, 
Thougii  what  vowed  she  in  the  darknesa 

None  may  tell ! 

Spinning,  spinning  by  the  sea, 

All  the  night  1 
While  her  candle,  gleaming  wide 
O'er  the  restless,  rolling  tide. 
Guides  with  steady,  changeless  ray. 
The  lone  fisher  up  the  bay — 
Hilda  spins  beside  the  sea. 

Through  the  night. 

Fifty  years  of  patient  spinning 

By  the  sea  I 
Old  and  worn,  she  sleeps  to-day. 
While  the  sunshine  gilds  the  bay  ; 
But  her  candle  shining  clear 
Every  night  of  all  the  year. 
Still  is  telling  of  her  spinning 

By  the  sea ! 


THE  CHAMBERED  NAUTILUS. 

HIS  is  the  ship  of  pearl,  which,  poets  feign, 
Sails  the  unshadowed  main — 
The  venturous  bark  that  flings 
y        On  the  sweet  summer  wind  its  purpled  wings 
In  gulfs  enchanted,  where  the  siren  sings, 

And  coral  reefs  lie  bare, 
Wliere  the  cold  sea-maids  rise  to  sun  their  streaming 
hair. 


240 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


Its  webs  of  living  gauze  no  more  unfurl ; 

Wrecked  is  the  ship  of  pearl ! 

And  every  chambered  cell, 
Where  its  dim  dreaming  life  was  wont  to  dwell, 
As  the  frail  tenant  shaped  his  growing  shell, 

Before  thee  lies  revealed — 
Its  irised  ceiling  rent,  its  sunless  crypt  unsealed ! 

Year  after  year  beheld  the  silent  toil 

That  spread  his  lustrous  coil ; 

Still,  as  the  spiral  grew, 
He  left  the  past  year's  dwelling  for  the  new, 
Stole  with  soft  step  its  shining  archway  through, 

Built  up  its  idle  door, 
Stretched  in  his  last-found  home,  and  knew  the  old  no 

more. 

Thanks  for  the  heavenly  message  brought  by  thee, 

Child  of  the  wandering  sea. 

Cast  from  her  lap,  forlorn  ! 
From  thy  dead  lips  a  clearer  note  is  bom 
Than  ever  Triton  blew  from  wreathed  horn  ! 

While  on  mine  ear  it  rings. 
Through  the  deep  caves  of  thought  I  hear  a  voice  that 

sings : — 

Build  thee  more  stately  mansions,  O  my  soul, 

As  the  swift  seasons  roll ! 

Leave  thy  low-vaulted  past ! 
Let  erch  new  temple,  nobler  than  the  last, 
Shut  thee  from  heaven  with  a  dome  more  vast. 

Till  thou  at  length  art  free. 
Leaving  thine  outgrown  shell  by  life's  unresting  sea  I 
Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 


THE  DYING  SAILOR. 

'E  called  his  friend,  and  prefaced  with  a  sigh 
A  lover's  message — "  Thomas,  I  must  die  : 
Would  I  could  see  my  Sallie,  and  could  rest 
My  throbbing  temples  on  her  faithful  breast, 
And  gazing,  go  ! — if  not,  this  trifle  take, 
And  say,  till  death  I  wore  it  for  her  sake  ; 


Yes  !  I  must  die — blow  on  sweet  breeze,  blow  on ! 

Give  me  one  look,  before  my  life  be  gone, 

Oh !  give  me  that,  and  let  me  not  despair, 

One  last  fond  look — and  now  repeat  the  prayer." 

He  had  his  wish,  had  more  ;  I  will  not  paint 
The  lovers'  meeting  :  she  beheld  him  faint. 
With  tender  fears,  she  took  a  nearer  view, 
Her  terrors  doubling  as  her  hopes  withdrew  ; 
He  tried  to  smile,  and,  half  succeeding,  said, 
"  Yes  I  I  must  die ;"  and  hope  for  ever  fled. 

Still  long  she  nursed  him ;  tender  thoughts  meantime. 
Were  interchanged,  and  hopes  and  views  sublime. 
To  her  he  came  to  die,  and  every  day 
She  took  some  portion  of  the  dread  away  : 
With  him  she  prayed,  to  him  his  Bible  read. 
Soothed  the  faint  heart,  and  held  the  aching  head  ; 
She  came  with  smiles  the  hour  of  pain  to  cheer ; 
Apart,  she  sighed,  alone,  she  shed  the  tear; 
Then,  as  if  breaking  from  a  cloud,  she  gave 
Fresh  light,  and  gilt  the  prospect  of  the  grave. 

One  day  he  lighter  seemed,  and  they  forgot 
The  care,  the  dread,  the  anguish  of  tlieir  lot ; 
They  spoke  with  cheerfulness,  and  seemed  to  think. 
Yet  said  not  so — "perhaps  he  will  not  sink": 
A  sudden  brightness  in  his  look  appeared, 
A  sudden  vigor  in  his  voice  was  heard  ; — 
She  had  been  reading  in  the  book  of  prayer. 
And  led  him  forth,  and  placed  him  in  his  chair ; 
Lively  he  seemed,  and  spoke  of  all  he  knew, 
The  friendly  many,  and  the  favorite  few  ; 
Nor  one  that  day  did  he  to  mind  recall. 
But  she  has  treasured,  and  she  loves  them  all ; 
When  in  her  way  she  meets  them,  they  appear 
Peculiar  people  — death  has  made  them  dear. 
He  named  his  friend,  but  then  his  hand  she  prest. 
And  fondly  whispered  "Thou  must  go  to  rest"; 
"I  go,"  he  said  ;  but,  as  he  spoke,  she  found 
His  hand  more  cold,  and  fluttering  was  the  sound! 
Then  gazed  affrightened  ;  but  she  caught  a  last, 
A  dying  look  of  love,  and  all  was  past! 

George  Crabbe 


PATRIOTISM  AND  FREEDOM. 


THE  AMERICAN  FLAG. 

HEN  Freedom  from  her  mount- 
ain height, 
Unfurled  her  standard  to 
the  air, 
She  tore  the  azure  robe  of  night, 
And  set  the  stars  of  glory  the-e  ! 
She  mingled  with  its  gorgeous 

C^  ^  '^^^  milky  baldric  of  the  skies, 

J»>  %  *  And  striped  its  pure  celestial 

"  t  white 

With  streakings  of  the  morning  light ; 

Then,  from  his  mansion  in  the  sun, 

She  called  her  eagle-bearer  down, 

And  gave  into  his  mighty  hand 

The  symbol  of  her  chosen  land  ! 

Majestic  monarch  of  the  cloud  ! 

Who  rear  st  aloft  thy  regal  form, 
To  hear  the  tempest  trumping  loud. 
And  see  the  lightning  lances  driven, 

When  strive  the  warriors  of  the  storm, 
And  rolls  the  thunder-drum  of  heaven — 
Child  of  the  sun  !  to  thee  'tis  given 

To  guard  the  banner  of  the  free, 
To  hover  in  the  sulphur  smoke. 
To  ward  away  the  battle-stroke. 
And  bid  its  blendings  shine  afar, 
Like  rainbows  on  the  cloud  of  war, 

The  harbingers  of  victory  ! 

Flag  of  the  brave  !  thy  folds  shall  fly, 
The  sign  of  hope  and  triumph  high  ! 
When  speaks  the  signal-trumpet  tone. 
And  the  long  line  comes  gleaming  on. 
Ere  yet  the  life-blood,  warm  and  wet, 
Has  dimmed  the  glistening  bayonet, 
Each  soldier's  eye  shall  brightly  turn 
To  where  thy  sky-born  glories  burn, 
And,  as  his  springing  steps  advance, 
Catch  war  and  vengeance  from  the  glance. 

And  when  the  cannon-mouthings  loud 
Heave  in  wild  wreaths  th«  battle  shroud, 
And  gory  sabres  rise  and  fall 
Like  shoots  of  flame  on  midnight's  pall, 
Then  shall  thy  meteor  glances  glow. 

And  cowering  foes  shall  shrink  beneath 
Each  gallant  arm  that  strikes  below 
That  lovely  messenger  of  death. 

Flag  of  the  seas  !  on  ocean  wave 
Thy  stars  shall  glitter  o'er  the  brave 
(16)  (241) 


When  death,  careering  on  the  gale, 
Sweeps  darkly  round  the  bellied  sail. 
And  frighted  waves  rush  wildly  back 
Before  the  broadside's  reeling  rack. 
Each  dying  wanderer  of  the  sea 
Shall  look  at  once  to  heaven  and  thee, 
And  smile  to  see  thy  splendors  fly 
In  triumph  o'er  his  closing  eye. 

Flag  of  the  free  heart's  hope  and  home. 

By  angel  hands  to  valor  given  ! 
Thy  stars  have  lit  the  welkin  dome, 

And  all  thy  hues  were  born  in  heaven. 
Forever  float  that  standard  sheet ! 

Where  breathes  the  foe  but  falls  before  us  ! 
With  freedom's  soil  beneath  our  feet, 

And  freedom's  banner  streaming  o'er  us  ! 

Joseph  Rodman  Drake. 


THE  STAR  SPANGLED  BANNER. 


In  1814,  when  the  British  fleet  was  at  the  mouth  of  the  Potomac 
River,  and  intended  to  attack  Baltimore,  Mr.  Key  and  Mr.  Skin- 
ner were  sent  in  a  vessel  with  a  flag  of  truce  to  obtain  the  release 
of  some  prisoners  the  English  had  taken  in  their  expedition 
againt  Washington.  They  did  not  succeed,  and  were  told  that 
they  would  be  detained  till  after  the  attack  had  been  made  on 
Baltimore.  Accordingly,  they  went  in  their  own  vessel,  strongly 
guarded,  with  the  British  fleet,  and  when  they  came  within  sight 
of  Fort  McHenry,  a  short  distance  below  the  city,  they  could  see 
the  American  flag  flying  on  the  ramparts.  As  the  day  closed  in, 
the  bombardment  of  the  fort  commenced,  and  Mr.  Key  and  Mr 
Skinner  remained  on  deck  all  night,  watching  with  deep  anxiety 
every  shell  that  was  fired.  While  the  bombardment  continued,  it 
was  sufficient  proof  that  the  fort  had  not  surrendered.  It  sud- 
denly ceased  some  time  before  day  ;  but  as  they  had  no  commBni- 
catian  with  any  of  the  enemy's  ships,  they  did  not  know  whether 
the  fort  had  surrendered  and  their  homes  and  friends  were  in 
danger,  or  the  attack  upon  it  had  been  abandoned.  They  paced 
the  deck  the  rest  of  the  night  in  painful  suspense,  watching  with 
intense  anxiety  for  the  return  of  day.  At  length  the  light  came, 
and  they  saw  that  "  our  flag  was  still  there,"  and  soon  they  were 
informed  that  the  attack  had  failed.  In  the  fervor  of  the  moment, 
Mr.  Key  took  an  old  letter  from  his  pocket,  and  on  its  back  wrote 
the  most  of  this  celebrated  song,  finishing  it  as  soon  as  he  reached 
Baltimore.  He  showed  it  to  his  friend  Judge  Nicholson,  who  was 
so  pleased  with  it  that  he  placed  it  at  once  in  the  hands  of  the 
printer,  and  in  an  hour  after  it  was  all  over  the  city,  and  hailed 
with  enthusiasm,  and  took  its  place  at  once  as  a  national  song. 
Thus,  this  patriotic,  impassioned  ode  became  forever  associated 
with  the  "  Stars  and  Stripes." 

SAY,  can  you  see,  by  the  dawn's  early  light. 
What  so  proudly  we  hailed  in  the  twilight's 
J  last  gleaming? 

Whose    broad    stripes    and    bright    stars 
through  the  perilous  fight, 
O'er  the  ramparts  we  watched  were  so  gallantly 
streaming ; 


242 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


And  the  rocket's  red  glare,  the  bombs  bursting  in  air, 
Gave  proof  through  the  night  that  our  flag  was  still 
there. 
O,  say,  does  that  star-spangled  banner  yet  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave? 

On  the  shore,  dimly  seen  through  the  mists  of  the  deep, 
Where  the  foes  haughty  host  in  dread  silence  re- 
poses. 
What  is  that  which  the  breeze,  o'er  the  towering 

steep, 
As  it  fitfully  blows,  half  conceals,  half  discloses  ? 
Now  it  catches  the  gleam  of  the  morning's  first  beam, 
In  full  glory  reflected  now  shines  on  the  stream. 
'Tis  the  star-spangled  banner !  O,  long  may  it  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave ! 

And  where  is  that  band  who  so  vauntingly  swore 
That  the  havoc  of  war  and  the  battle's  confusion 

A  home  and  a  country  should  leave  us  no  more  ? 
Their  blood  has  washed  out  their  foul  footstep's  pol- 
lution. 

No  refuge  could  save  the  hireling  and  slave 

From  the  terror  of  death  and  the  gloom  of  the  grave. 
And  the  star-spangled  banner  in  triumph  shall  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave  ! 

O,  thus  be  it  ever,  when  freemen  shall  stand 

Between  their  loved  homes  and  the  war's  desolation ; 
Blest  with  victory  and  peace,  may  the  heaven-rescued 
land 
Praise  the  power  that  has  made  and  preserved  us  a 
nation. 
Then  conquer  we  must,  for  our  cause  it  is  just. 
And  this  be  our  motto,  "In  God  is  our  trust." 
And  the  star-spangled  banner  in  triumph  shall  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave  ! 

Francis  S.  Key. 

FREEDOM  IRREPRESSIBLE. 

IS  said  that  Persia's  baffled  king, 
In  mad,  tyrannic  pride. 
Cast  fetters  on  the  Hellespont, 
"^  To  curb  its  swelling  tide  : 

But  freedom's  own  true  spirit  heaves 

The  bosom  of  the  main  ; 
It  tossed  those  fetters  to  the  skies, 

And  bounded  on  again  ! 

The  scorn  of  each  succeeding  age 

On  Xerxes'  head  was  hurled. 
And  o'er  that  foolish  deed  has  pealed 

The  long  laugh  of  a  world. 

Thus,  thus,  defeat,  and  scorn,  and  shame. 

Is  his,  who  strives  to  bind 
The  restless,  leaping  waves  of  thought, 

The  free  tide  of  the  mind. 
Sarah  Jane  Lippincott,  {Grace  Greenwood.) 


INDEPENDENCE  BELL— JULY  4,  1776. 

When  the  Declaration  of  Independence  was  adopted  by  Con- 
gress, the  event  was  announced  by  ringing  tlie  old  Stale-House 
bell,  which  bore  the  inscription  "  Proclaim  liberty  throUi;hout  the 
land,  to  all  the  inhabitants  thereof!  "  The  old  bellman  stationed 
his  little  grandson  at  the  door  of  the  hall,  to  await  the  instructions 
of  the  door-keeper  when  to  ring.  At  the  word,  the  young  patriot 
rushed  out,  and  clapping  his  hands  shouted: — "Ring!  Ring! 
RING!" 

PIERE  was  a  tumult  in  the  city 
III  the  quaint  old  Quaker  town, 
And  the  streets  were  rife  with  people 
Y  Pacing  restless  up  and  down — 

People  gathering  at  the  corners, 

Where  they  whispered  each  to  each. 
And  the  sweat  stood  on  their  temples 
With  the  earnestness  of  speech. 

As  the  bleak  Atlantic  currents 

Lash  the  wild  Newfoundland  shore. 
So  they  beat  against  the  State  House, 

So  they  surged  against  the  door  ; 
And  the  mingling  of  their  voices 

Made  the  harmony  profound, 
Till  the  quiet  street  of  Chestnut 

Was  all  turbulent  with  sound. 

"  Will  they  do  it  ?  "     '  •  Dare  they  do  it  ?" 

"Who  is  speaking?"     "What's  the  news?" 
"  What  of  Adams  ? "     "  What  of  Sherman  ? ' ' 

"  Oh,  God  grant  they  won't  refuse  !  "  ' 

"  Make  some  way  there  !  "     "  Let  me  nearer !  " 

"  I  am  stifling  !  "     "  Stifle,  then  I 

When  a  nation's  life's  at  hazard. 
We've  no  time  to  think  of  men  ! " 

So  they  surged  against  the  State  House, 

While  all  solemnly  inside, 
Sat  the  "  Continental  Congress," 

Truth  and  reason  for  their  guide. 
O'er  a  simple  scroll  debating. 

Which,  though  simple  it  might  be, 
Yet  should  shake  the  cliff's  of  England 

With  the  thunders  of  the  free. 

Far  aloft  in  that  high  steeple 

Sat  the  bellman,  old  and  gray, 
He  was  weary  of  the  tyrant 

And  his  iron-sceptered  sway  ; 
So  he  sat,  with*one  hand  ready 

On  the  clapper  of  the  bell. 
When  his  eye  could  catch  the  signal, 

The  long-expected  news,  to  tell. 

See  !    See  !    The  dense  crowd  quivers 

Through  all  its  lengthy  line, 
As  the  boy  beside  the  portal 

Hastens  forth  to  give  the  sign ! 
With  his  little  hands  uplifted, 

Breezes  dallying  with  his  hair. 
Hark  !  with  deep,  clear  intonation. 

Breaks  his  young  voice  on  the  air : 


PATRIOTISM  AND  FREEDOM. 


24.; 


Hushed  the  people's  swelling  murmur, 

Whilst  the  boy  cries  joyously ; 
*'  Ring  !  "  he  shouts,  "  Ring !  grandpapa, 

Ring !  oh,  ring  for  Liberty !  " 
Quickly,  at  the  given  signal 

The  old  bellman  lifts  his  hand. 
Forth  he  sends  the  good  news,  making 

Iron  music  through  the  land. 

How  they  shouted !    What  rejoicing ! 

How  the  old  bell  shook  the  air. 
Till  tiie  clang  of  freedom  ruffled, 

The  calmly  gliding  Delaware  ! 
How  the  bonfires  and  the  torches 

Lighted  up  the  night's  repose, 
And  from  the  flames,  like  fabled  Phoenix, 

Our  glorious  liberty  arose  ! 

That  old  State  House  bell  is  silent. 

Hushed  is  now  its  clamorous  tongjue ; 
But  the  spirit  it  awakened 

Still  is  living — ever  young  ; 
And  when  we  greet  the  smiling  sunlight 

On  the  fourth  of  each  July, 
We  will  ne'er  forget  the  bellman 

Who,  betwixt  the  earth  and  sky. 
Rung  out,  loudly,  "Independence;" 

Which,  please  God,  shall  never  die  ! 


LOVE  OF  COUNTRY. 

lREATHES  there  the  man  with  soul  so  dead 
Who  never  to  himself  hath  said, 

This  is  my  own,  my  native  land  ! 
Whose  heart  hath  ne'er  within  him  burned. 
As  home  his  footsteps  he  hath  turned 

From  wandering  on  a  foreign  strand  ? 
If  such  there  breathe,  go,  mark  him  well ; 
For  him  no  minstrel  raptures  swell ; 
High  though  his  titles,  proud  his  name. 
Boundless  his  wealth  as  wish  can  claim, 
Despite  those  titles,  power  and  pelf. 
The  wretch,  concentred  all  in  self, 
Living,  shall  forfeit  fair  renown. 
And,  doubly  dying,  shall  go  down 
To  the  vile  dust  from  whence  he  sprung. 
Unwept,  unhonored,  and  unsung. 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 


HAIL,  COLUMBIA. 

The  following  account  of  the  circumstances  attending  the  com- 
position of  this  song  was  communicated  by  the  author  a  few 
months  before  his  death.  "  It  was  written  in  the  summer  of  1798, 
when  war  with  France  was  thought  to  be  inevitable.  Congress 
was  then  in  session  in  Philadelphia,  deliberating  upon  that  import- 
ant subject,  and  acts  of  hostility  had  actually  taken  place.  The 
contest  between  England  and  France  was  raging.  The  violation 
of  our  rights  by  both  belligerents  was  forcing  us  from  the  just  and 
wise  policy  of  President  Washington,  which  was  to  do  equal  jus- 


tice to  both,  to  take  part  with  neither,  but  to  preserve  a  strict  and 
honest  neutrality  between  them.  The  violence  of  the  spirit  o( 
party  has  never  risen  highei,  I  think,  in  our  country,  tnan  it  did 
at  that  time.  The  theatre  was  then  open  in  the  city.  A  young 
man  belonging  to  it,  whose  talent  was  as  a  singer,  was  about  to 
take  his  benefit.  I  had  known  hint  when  he  was  at  school.  On' 
this  acquaintance,  he  called  on  nie  one  Saturday  afternoon,  liis 
benefit  being  announced  for  the  following  Monday.  His  prospects 
were  very  disheartening;  but  he  said  that  if  lie  could  get  a  patri- 
otic song  adapted  to  the  tune  of  the  '  Presidents  March,'  he  did 
not  doubt  of  a  full  house;  that  the  poets  of  the  theatrical  corps 
had  been  trying  to  accomplish  it,  but  had  not  succeeded.  I  told 
him  I  would  try  what  I  could  do  for  him.  He  came  the  next  after- 
noon, and  the  song  was  ready  for  hira.  The  object  of  the  author 
was  to  get  up  an  Atnerican  spirit,  which  should  be  independent 
of,  and  above  the  interests,  passions,  and  policy  of  both  belliger- 
ents, and  look  and  feel  exclusively  for  our  own  honor  and  rights. 
No  allusion  is  made  to  France  or  England,  or  the  quarrel  between 
them,  or  to  the  question  which  was  most  at  fault  in  their  treatment 
of  us.  Of  course  the  song  found  favor  with  both  parties,  for  both 
were  Americans.    Such  is  the  history  of  '  Hail,  Columbia.' " 

'AIL  Columbia,  happy  land, 

Hail,  ye  heroes  !  heaven-bom  band  ! 

Who  fought  and  bled  in  freedom's  cause, 
Who  fought  and  bled  in  freedom's  cause. 
And  when  the  storm  of  war  was  gone 
Enjoyed  the  peace  your  valor  won. 
Let  independence  be  our  boasL 
Ever  mindful  what  it  cost ; 
Ever  grateful  for  the  prize. 
Let  its  altar  reach  the  skies. 

Firm,  united  let  us  be. 
Rallying  round  our  liberty ; 
As  a  band  of  brothers  joined, 
Peace  and  safety  we  shall  find. 

Immortal  patriots  !  rise  once  more : 
Defend  your  rights,  defend  your  shore ; 
Let  no  rude  foe  with  impious  hand. 
Let  no  rude  foe  with  impious  hand. 
Invade  the  shrine  where  sacred  lies 
Of  toil  and  blood  the  well-earned  prize. 
WTiile  offering  peace  sincere  and  just, 
In  Heaven  we  place  a  manly  tnist. 
That  truth  and  justice  will  prevail, 
And  every  scheme  of  bondage  fail. 

Sound,  sound  the  trump  of  fame  ! 

Let  Washington's  gfreat  name 

Ring  through  the  world  with  loud  applause  ; 
Ring  through  the  world  with  loud  applause  ; 

Let  every  clime  to  freedom  dear 

Listen  with  a  joyful  ear  ! 

With  equal  skill  and  godlike  power, 
He  governed  in  the  fearful  hour 
Of  horrid  war  ;  or  guides  with  ease 
The  happier  times  of  honest  peace. 

Behold  the  chief  who  now  commands, 
Once  more  to  serve  his  country  stands — 

The  rock  on  which  the  storm  will  beat ; 

The  rock  on  which  tlie  storm  will  beat ; 


244 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


But,  armed  in  virtue  firm  and  true, 
His  hopes  are  fixed  on  Heaven  and  you. 
When  hope  was  sinking  in  dismay, 
And  glooms  obscured  Columbia's  day, 
His  steady  mind,  from  changes  free. 
Resolved  on  deatli  or  liberty. 

Joseph  Hopkinson. 

GENERAL  WARREN'S  ADDRESS. 

'  TAND !  the  ground's  your  own,  my  braves  ! 
Will  ye  give  it  up  to  slaves  ? 
Will  ye  look  for  greener  graves  ? 

Hope  ye  mercy  still  ? 
What's  the  mercy  despots  feel  ? 
Hear  it  in  that  battle-peal  ! 
Read  it  on  yon  bristling  steel ! 
Ask  it — ye  who  will. 

Fear  ye  foes  who  kill  for  hire  ? 
Will  ye  to  your  homes  retire  ? 
Look  behind  you  ! — they're  afire  ! 

And  before  you,  see 
Who  have  done  it !    From  the  vale 
On  they  come  ! — and  will  ye  quail? 
Leaden  rain  and  iron  hail 

Let  their  welcome  be ! 

In  the  God  of  battles  trust ! 
Die  we  may — and  die  we  must : 
But,  O,  where  can  dust  to  dust 

Be  consigned  so  well. 
As  where  heaven  its  dews  shall  shed 
On  the  martyred  patriot's  bed, 
And  the  rocks  shall  raise  their  head. 

Of  his  deeds  to  tell  ? 

John  Pierpont. 


THE  PEOPLE'S  SONG  OF  PEACE. 

FROM  "the  song  OF  THE  CENTENNIAL." 

'HE  grass  is  green  on  Bunker  Hill, 
The  waters  sweet  in  Brandy  wine ; 
The  sword  sleeps  in  the  scabbard  still, 
The  farmer  keeps  his  flock  and  vine; 
Then  who  would  mar  the  scene  to-day 
With  vaunt  of  battle-field  or  fray? 

The  brave  corn  lifts  in  regiments 
Ten  thousand  sabres  in  the  sun  ; 

The  ricks  replace  the  battle-tents, 
The  bannered  tassels  toss  and  run. 

The  neighing  steed,  the  bugle's  blast, 

These  be  but  stories  of  the  past. 

The  earth  has  healed  her  wounded  breast, 
The  cannons  plough  the  field  no  more; 

The  heroes  rest !    O,  let  them  rest 
In  peace  along  the  peaceful  shore  ! 

They  fought  for  peace,  for  peace  they  fell ; 

They  sleep  in  peace,""and  all  is  well. 


The  fields  orget  the  battles  ought. 
The  trenches  wave  in  golden  grain : 

Shall  we  neglect  the  lessons  taught. 
And  tear  the  wounds  agape  again  ? 

Sweet  Mother  Nature,  nurse  the  land, 

And  heal  her  wounds  with  gentle  hand. 

Lo  !  peace  on  earth  !    Lo !  flock  and  fold  ! 

Lo  !  rich  abundance,  fat  increase, 
And  valleys  clad  in  sheen  of  gold  1 

O,  rise  and  sing  a  song  of  peace ! 
For  Theseus  roams  the  land  no  more, 
And  Janus  rests  with  rusted  door. 

Joaquin  Miller. 


ON  LAYING   THE  CORNER   STONE  OF  THE 
BUNKER  HILL  MONUMENT. 


IS  not  this  a  holy  spot  ? 

'Tis  the  high  place  of  freedom's  birth! 
J     God  of  our  fathers  !  is  it  not 

The  holiest  spot  of  all  the  earth  ? 


Quenched  is  thy  flame  on  Horeb's  side  ; 

The  robber  roams  o'er  Sinai  now  ; 
And  those  old  men,  thy  seers,  abide 

No  more  on  Zion's  mournful  brow. 

But  on  this  hill  thou.  Lord,  hast  dwelt, 
Since  round  its  head  the  war-cloud  curled. 

And  wrapped  our  fathers,  where  they  knelt 
In  prayer  and  battle  for  a  world. 

Here  sleeps  their  dust :  'tis  holy  ground  : 
And  we,  the  children  of  the  brave, 

From  the  four  winds  are  gathered  round. 
To  lay  our  oflfering  on  their  grave. 

Free  as  the  winds  around  us  blow, 
Free  as  the  waves  below  us  spread, 

We  rear  a  pile,  that  long  shall  throw 
Its  shadow  on  their  sacred  bed. 

But  on  their  deeds  no  shade  shall  fall, 
While  o'er  their  couch  thy  sun  shall  flame. 

Thine  ear  was  bowed  to  hear  their  call, 
And  thy  right  hand  shall  guard  their  fame. 

John  Pierpont. 


THE  WOODS  OF  TENNESSEE. 

'HE  whip-poor-will  is  calling 

From  its  perch  on  splintered  limb. 
And  the  plaintive  notes  are  echoing 
Through  the  isles  of  the  forest  dim  ; 
The  slanting  threads  of  starlight 

Are  silvering  shrub  and  tree. 
And  the  spot  where  the  loved  are  sleeping, 
In  the  woods  of  Tennessee. 


PATRIOTISM  AND   FREEDOM. 


245 


The  leaves  are  gently  rustling, 

But  they're  stained  with  a  tinge  of  red, 
For  they  proved  to  many  a  soldier 

Their  last  and  lonely  bed. 
As  they  prayed  in  mortal  agony 

To  God  to  set  them  free, 
Death  touched  them  with  his  finger 

In  the  woods  of  Tennessee. 

In  the  list  of  the  killed  and  wounded, 

Ah  me  !  alas  !  we  saw 
The  name  of  our  noble  brother. 

Who  went  to  the  Nation's  w-ar. 
He  fell  in  the  tide  of  battle 

On  the  banks  of  the  old  "  Hatchie," 
And  rests  'neath  the  wild  grape  arbors 

In  the  woods  of  Tennessee. 

Many  still  forms  are  lying 

In  their  forgotten  graves, 
On  the  green  slopes  of  the  hillsides, 

Along  Potomac's  waves ; 
But  the  memory  will  be  ever  sweet 

Of  him  so  dear  to  me. 
On  his  country's  altar  offered. 

In  the  woods  of  Tennessee. 


U 


BARBARA   FRIETCHIE. 

P  Irom  the  meadows  rich  with  com. 
Clear  in  the  cool  September  morn, 

The  clustered  spires  of  Frederick  stand. 
Green-walled  by  the  hills  of  Maryland. 

Round  about  them  orchards  sweep, 
Apple  and  peach  tree  fruited  deep. 

On  that  pleasant  morn  of  the  early  Fall, 
When  Lee  marched  over  the  mountain  wall. 

Over  the  mountains  winding  down. 
Horse  and  foot,  into  Frederick  town. 

Forty  flags  with  their  silver  stars, 
Forty  Hags  with  their  crimson  bars, 

Flapped  in  the  morning  wind  :  the  sun 
Of  noon  looked  down,  and  saw  not  one. 

Up  rose  old  Barbara  Frietchie  then, 
Bowed  with  her  four  score  years  and  ten ; 

Bravest  of  all  in  Frederick  town, 

She  took  up  the  flag  the  men  hauled  down. 

In  her  attic-window  the  staff  she  set. 
To  show  that  one  heart  was  loyal  yet 

Up  the  street  came  the  rebel  tread, 
Stonewall  Jackson  riding  ahead. 

Under  his  slouched  hat  left  and  right 
He  glanced :  the  old  flag  met  his  sight. 


"  Halt !  " — the  dust-brown  ranks  stood  fast ; 
"  Fire  !  " — out  blazed  the  rifle-blast. 

It  shivered  the  window,  pane  and  sash, 
It  rent  the  banner  with  seam  and  gash. 

Quick,  as  it  fell  from  the  broken  staff, 
Dame  Barbara  snatched  the  silken  scarf; 

She  leaned  far  out  on  the  window-sill. 
And  shook  it  forth  with  a  royal  w^ill. 

"  Shoot,  if  you  must,  this  old  gray  head. 
But  spare  your  country's  flag,"  she  said. 

A  shade  of  sadness,  a  blush  of  shame, 
Over  the  face  of  the  leader  came  ; 

The  nobler  nature  within  him  stirred 
To  life  at  that  woman's  deed  and  word. 

"  Who  touches  a  hair  of  yon  gray  head 
Dies  like  a  dog !     March  on  !  "  he  said. 

All  day  long  through  Frederick  street 
Sounded  the  tread  of  marching  feet ; 

All  day  long  that  free  flag  tossed 
Over  the  heads  of  the  serried  host. 

Ever  its  torn  folds  rose  and  fell 

On  the  loyal  winds  that  loved  it  well ; 

And  through  the  hill-gaps  sunset  light 
Shone  over  it  with  a  warm  good-night. 

Barbara  Frietchie's  work  is  o'er, 

And  the  soldier  rides  on  his  raids  no  more. 

Honor  to  her !  and  let  a  tear 

Fall,  for  her  sake,  on  Stonewall's  bier.  ~ 

Over  Barbara  Frietchie's  grave. 
Flag  of  Freedom  and  Union,  wave ! 

Peace  and  order  and  beauty  draw 
Round  thy  symbol  of  light  and  law ; 

And  ever  the  stars  above  look  down 
On  thy  stars  below  in  Frederick  town. 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


THE  MARSEILLAISE. 

■  E  sons  of  freedom,  wake  to  glory ! 

Hark  !  hark  !  what  myriads  bid  you  rise  ! 
Your  children,  wives,  and  grandsh-es  hoary, 
Behold  their  tears  and  hear  their  cries  ! 
Shall  hateful  tyrants,  mischiefs  breeding, 
With  hireling  hosts,  a  ruffian  band. 
Affright  and  desolate  the  land. 
While  peace  and  liberty  lie  bleeding? 
To  arms  !  to  arms  !  ye  brave  ! 

The  avenging  sword  unsheathe ; 
March  on  !  march  on !  all  hearts  resolved 
On  victory  or  death. 


246 


CROWN   JEWELS. 


Now,  now  the  dangerous  storm  is  rolling, 

Which  treacherous  kings  confederate  raise  ; 
The  dogs  of  war,  let  loose,  are  howling. 

And  lo!  our  fields  and  cities  blaze  ; 
And  shall  we  basely  view  the  ruin, 

While  lawless  force,  with  guilty  stride, 
Spreads  desolation  far  and  wide, 
With  crimes  and  blood  his  hands  imbruing. 

O  liberty  !  can  man  resign  thee, 

Once  having  felt  thy  generous  flame? 
Can  dungeons,  bolts,  or  bars  confine  thee  ? 

Or  whips  thy  noble  spirit  tame  ? 
Too  long  the  world  has  wept,  bewailing 
That  falsehood's  dagger  tyrants  wield. 
But  freedom  is  our  sword  and  shield, 
And  all  their  arts  are  unavailing. 

RouGET  DE  Lisle. 


A  film  the  mother-eagle's  eye 
When  her  bruised  eaglet  breathes  : 
"  You're  wounded  I  "     "  Nay,"  his  soldier's  pride 

Touched  to  the  quick,  he  said : 
"  I'm  killed,  sire  I "    And,  his  chief  beside, 
Smiling,  the  boy  fell  dead. 

Robert  Browning. 


AN  INCIDENT  OF  THE  FRENCH  CAMP. 

OU  know  we  French  stormed  Ratisbon  : 
A  mile  or  so  away. 
On  a  little  mound.  Napoleon 
Stood  on  our  storming-day  ; 
With  neck  out-thrust,  you  fancy  how. 

Legs  wide,  arms  locked  behind. 
As  if  to  balance  the  prone  brow, 
Oppresive  with  its  mind. 

Just  as  perhaps  he  mused,  "  My  plans 

That  soar,  to  earth  may  fall. 
Let  once  my  army-leader  Lannes 

Waver  at  yonder  wall  " — 
Out  'twixt  the  battery-smokes  there  flew 

A  rider,  bound  on  bound 
Full-galloping  ;  nor  bridle  drew 

Until  he  reached  the  mound. 

Then  off  there  flung  in  smiling  joy, 

And  held  himself  erect 
By  just  his  horse's  mane,  a  boy  : 

You  hardly  could  suspect 
(So  tight  he  kept  his  lips  compressed, 

Scarce  any  blood  rame  through), 
You  looked  twice  ere  you  saw  his  breast 

Was  all  but  shot  in  two. 

'  Well,"  cried  he,  "  Emperor,  by  God's  grace. 

We've  got  you  Ratisbon  ! 
The  marshal's  in  the  market  place, 

And  you'll  be  there  anon 
To  see  your  flag-bird  flap  his  A'ans 

Where  I,  to  heart's  desire. 
Perched  him  !"    The  chiefs  eye  flashecf ;  his  plans 

Soared  up  again  like  fire. 
The  chief's  eye  flashed ;  but  presently 

Softened  itself,  as  sheathes 


llJ 


RULE  BRITANNIA. 

HEN  Britain  first,  at  Heaven's  command. 
Arose  from  out  the  azure  main. 
This  was  the  charter  of  the  land, 
And  guardian  angels  sung  the  strain  : 
Rule  Britannia,  Britannia  rules  the  waves ! 
Britons  never  shall  be  slaves. 


The  nations  not  so  blest  as  thee. 

Must  in  their  turn  to  tyrants  fall. 
Whilst  thou  shall  flourish  great  and  free, 

The  dread  and  envy  of  them  all. 

Still  more  majestic  shalt  thou  rise, 

More  dreadful  from  each  foreign  stroke ; 

As  the  loud  blast  that  tears  the  skies. 
Serves  but  to  root  thy  native  oak. 

Thee  haughty  tyrants  ne'er  shall  tame ; 

All  their  attempts  to  bend  thee  down 
Will  but  arouse  thy  generous  flame. 

And  work  their  woe  and  thy  renown. 

To  thee  belongs  the  rural  reign  ; 

Thy  cities  shall  with  commerce  shine  ; 
All  shall  be  subject  to  the  main. 

And  every  shore  it  circles  tliine. 

The  Muses,  still  with  freedom  found, 

Shall  to  thy  happy  coast  repair ; 
Blest  isle,  with  matchless  beauty  crowned. 

And  manly  hearts  to  guard  the  fair. 

J.^mes  Thomson. 

ADDRESS  AT  THE  DEDICATION  OF  GETTYS- 
BURG CEMETERY. 

OURSCORE  and  seven  years  ago  our  fathers 
brought  forth  upon  this  continent  a  new  na- 
tion, conceived  in  liberty,  and  dedicated  to 
the  proposition  that  all  men  are  created  equal. 
Now  we  are  engaged  in  a  great  civil  war,  testing 
whether  that  nation,  or  any  nation,  so  conceived  and 
so  dedicated,  can  long  endure.  We  are  met  on  a 
great  battle-field  of  that  war.  We  are  met  to  dedi- 
cate a  portion  of  it  as  the  final  resting-place  of  those 
who  here  gave  their  lives  that  that  nation  might  live. 
It  is  altogether  fitting  and  proper  that  we  should  do 
this.  But  in  a  larger  sense  we  cannot  dedicate,  we 
cannot  consecrate,  we   cannot  hallow  this  ground. 


PATRIOTISM   AND   FREEDOM. 


247 


The  brave  men,  living  and  dead,  who  struggled  here, 
have  consecrated  it  far  above  our  power  to  add  or 
detract.  The  world  will  little  note,  nor  long  remem- 
ber what  we  say  here,  but  it  can  never  forget  what 
they  did  here. 

It  is  for  us,  the  livnig,  rather  to  be  dedicated  here 
to  the  unfinished  work  they  have  thus  far  so  nobly 
carried  on.  It  is  rather  for  us  to  be  here  dedicated 
to  the  great  task  remaining  before  us,  that  from  these 
honored  dead  we  take  increased  devotion  to  the 
cause  for  which  they  gave  the  last  full  measure  of  de- 
votion ,  that  we  here  highly  resolve  that  these  dead 
shall  not  have  died  in  vain,  and  that  the  nation  shall, 
under  God,  have  a  new  birth  of  freedom,  and  that 
the  government  of  the  people,  by  the  people,  and  for 
the  people  shall  not  perish  from  the  earth. 

Abraham  Lincoln. 

THE  BLUE  AND  THE  GRAY. 

Many  of  the  women  of  the  South,  animated  by  noble  sentiments, 
have  shown  themselves  impartial  in  their  offerings  made  to  the 
memory  of  the  dead.  They  have  strewn  flowers  alike  on  the 
graves  of  the  Confederate  and  of  the  National  soldiers. 

I Y  the  flow  of  the  inland  river. 

Whence  the  fleets  of  iron  have  fled. 
Where  the  blades  of  the  grave-grass  quiver. 
Asleep  on  the  ranks  of  the  dead  : — 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment  day  ; 
Under  the  one,  the  Blue, 
Under  the  other,  the  Gray. 

These  in  the  robings  of  glory. 

Those  in  the  gloom  of  defeat. 
All  with  the  battle-blood  gory. 
In  the  dusk  of  eternity  meet : — 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment  day ; 
Under  the  laurel,  the  Blue, 
Under  the  willow,  the  Gray. 

From  the  silence  of  sorrowful  hours, 

The  desolate  mourners  go. 
Lovingly  laden  with  flowers. 
Alike  for  the  friend  and  the  foe  : — 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew. 

Waiting  the  judgment  day; 
Under  the  roses,  the  Blue, 
Under  the  lilies,  the  Gray. 

So,  with  an  equal  splendor. 
The  morning  sun-rays  fall. 
With  a  touch  impartially  tender. 

On  the  blossoms  blooming  for  all : — 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew. 

Waiting  the  judgment  day  ; 
Broidered  with  gold,  the  Blue, 
Mellowed  with  gold,  the  Gray. 


So,  when  the  summer  calleth, 
On  forest  and  field  of  grain 
With  an  equal  murmur  falleth 
The  cooling  drip  of  the  rain  : — 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew. 

Waiting  the  judgment  day  ; 
Wet  with  the  rain,  the  Blue, 
Wet  with  the  rain,  the  Gray. 

Sadly,  but  not  with  upbraiding, 

The  generous  deed  was  done  ; 
In  the  storm  of  the  years  that  are  fading. 
No  braver  battle  was  won  : — 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew. 

Waiting  the  judgment  day  ; 
Under  the  blossoms,  the  Blue, 
Under  the  garlands,  the  Gray. 

No  more  shall  the  war  cry  sever. 
Or  the  winding  rivers  be  red  ; 
They  banish  our  anger  forever 
When  they  laurel  the  graves  of  our  dead ! 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew. 

Waiting  the  judgment  day  ; 
Love  and  tears  for  the  Blue, 
Tears  and  love  for  the  Gray. 

F.  M.  Finch. 


llJ 


PATRIOTISM. 

HAT  is  patriotism  ?  Is  it  a  narrow  affec- 
tion for  the  spot  where  a  man  was  born  ? 
Are  the  very  clods  where  we  tread  entitled 
to  this  ardent  preference  because  they 
are  greener?  No,  sir:  this  is  not  the  character 
of  the  virtue,  and  it  soars  higher  for  its  object.  It 
is  an  extended  self-love,  mingling  with  all  the  en- 
joyments of  life,  and  twisting  itself  with  the 
minutest  filaments  of  the  heart.  It  is  thus  we  obey 
the  laws  of  society,  because  they  are  the  laws  of  vir- 
tue. In  their  authority  we  see,  not  the  array  of  force 
and  terror,  but  the  venerable  image  of  our  country's 
honor.  Every  good  citizen  makes  that  honor  his 
own,  and  cherishes  it  not  only  as  precious,  but  as  sa- 
cred. He  is  willing  to  risk  his  life  in  its  defence,  and  is 
conscious  that  he  gains  protection  while  he  gives  it ;  for 
what  rights  of  a  citizen  will  be  deemed  inviolable 
when  a  State  renounces  the  principles  that  constitute 
their  security  ?  Or,  if  his  life  should  not  be  invaded, 
what  would  its  enjoyments  be  in  a  country  odious  in 
the  eyes  of  strangers  and  dishonored  in  his  own  ? 
Could  he  look  with  affection  and  veneration  to  such  a 
country  as  his  parent?  The  sense  of  having  one 
would  die  within  him  ;  he  would  blush  for  his  patri- 
otism, if  he  retained  any,  and  justly,  for  It  would  be 
a  vice.  He  would  be  a  banished  man  in  his  native 
land. 

Fisher  Ames. 


248 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


LANDING  OF  THE  PILGRIM  FATHERS. 

.«^ 

'HE  breaking  waves  dashed  high 

On  a  stern  and  rock-bound  coast, 
And  the  woods  against  a  stormy  sky 
"f"  Their  giant  branches  tossed. 

And  the  heavy  night  hung  dark 

The  hills  and  waters  o'er, 
When  a  band  of  exiles  moored  their  bark 

On  the  wild  New  England  shore. 

Not  as  the  conqueror  comes, 

They,  the  true-hearted  came ; 
Not  with  the  roll  of  the  stirring  drums, 

And  the  trumpet  that  sings  of  fame. 

Not  as  the  flying  come. 

In  silence  and  in  fear  ; 
They  shook  the  depths  of  the  desert  gloom 

With  their  hymns  of  lofty  cheer. 

Amidst  the  storm  they  sang. 

And  the  stars  heard,  and  the  sea  ; 

And  the  sounding  aisles  of  the  dim  woods  rang 
To  the  anthem  of  the  free. 

The  ocean  eagle  soared 

From  his  nest  by  the  white  wave's  foam  ; 
And  the  rocking  pines  of  the  forest  roared — 

This  was  their  welcome  home  ! 

There  were  men  with  hoary  hair 

Amidst  that  pilgrim  band  : — 
Why  had  they  come  to  wither  there. 

Away  from  their  childhood's  land  ? 

There  was  woman's  fearless  eye, 

Lit  by  her  deep  love's  truth  ; 
There  was  manhood's  brow  serenely  high, 

And  the  fiery  heart  of  youth. 

What  sought  they  thus  afar  ? 

Bright  jewels  of  the  mine  ? 
The  wealth  of  seas,  the  spoils  of  war  ? — 

They  sought  a  faith's  pure  shrine  ! 

Ay,  call  it  holy  ground, 

The  soil  where  first  they  trod  ; 
They  left  unstained  what  there  they  found — 

Freedom  to  worship  God. 

Felicia  Dorothea  Hemans. 


ON  BEING   FOUND  GUILTY  OF  TREASON. 

a  JURY  of  my  countrymen  have  found  me 
guilty  of  the  crime  for  which  I  stood  in- 
dicted. For  this  I  entertain  not  the  slightest 
feeling  of  resentment  towards  them.  Influ- 
enced, as  they  must  have  been,  by  the  charge  of  the 
lord  chief  justice,  they  could  have  found  no  other 
verdict.  What  of  that  charge?  Any  strong  obser- 
vations on  it  I  feel  sincerely  would  ill  befit  the 
solemnity  of  this  scene;   but  I  would  earnestly  be- 


seech of  you,  my  Lord — you  who  preside  on  that 
bench — when  the  passions  and  prejudices  of  this 
hour  have  passed  away,  to  appeal  to  your  own  con- 
science, and  to  ask  of  it,  was  your  charge  as  it  ought 
to  have  been,  impartial  and  indifferent  between  the 
subject  and  the  crown  ? 

My  Lords,  you  may  deem  this  language  imbecom- 
ing  in  me,  and  perhaps  it  will  seal  my  fate.  But  I 
am  here  to  speak  the  truth,  whatever  it  may  cost ;  I 
am  here  to  regret  nothing  I  have  ever  done, — to  re- 
tract nothing  I  have  ever  said.  I  am  here  to  crave, 
with  no  lying  lip,  the  life  I  consecrate  to  the  liberty  of 
my  country.  Far  from  it,  even  here — here,  where  the 
thief,  the  libertine,  the  murderer,  have  left  their  foot- 
prints in  the  dust;  here  on  this  spot,  where  the 
shadows  of  death  surround  me,  and  from  which  I  see 
my  early  grave  in  an  unanointed  soil  opened  to  re- 
ceive me — even  here,  encircled  by  these  terrors,  the 
hope  which  has  beckoned  me  to  the  perilous  sea 
upon  which  I  have  been  wrecked,  still  consoles,  ani- 
mates, enraptures  me. 

No ;  I  do  not  despair  of  my  poor  old  country — her 
peace,  her  liberty,  her  glory.  For  that  country,  I 
can  do  no  more  than  bid  her  hope.  To  lift  this  island 
up  ;  to  make  her  a  benefactor  to  humanity,  instead  of 
being  the  meanest  beggar  in  the  world ;  to  restore 
her  to  her  native  powers  and  her  ancient  constitution, 
— this  has  been  my  ambition,  and  this  ambition  has 
been  my  crime.  Judged  by  the  law  of  England, 
I  know  this  crime  entails  the  penalty  of  death ;  but 
the  history  of  Ireland  explains  this  crime,  and  justifies 
it.  Judged  by  that  history,  I  am  no  criminal — I  de- 
serve no  punishment.  Judged  by  that  history,  the 
treason  of  which  I  stand  convicted  loses  all  its  guilt, 
is  sanctioned  as  a  duty,  will  be  ennobled  as  a  sacrifice. 
With  these  sentiments,  my  Lord,  I  await  the  sentence 
of  the  court. 

Having  done  what  I  felt  to  be  my  duty,  having 
spoken  what  I  felt  to  be  the  truth — as  I  have  done  on 
every  other  occasion  of  my  short  career — I  now  bid 
farewell  to  the  country  of  my  birth,  my  passion,  and 
my  death ;  the  country  whose  misfortunes  have  in- 
voked my  sympathies;  whose  factions  I  have  sought 
to  still ;  whose  intellect  I  have  prompted  to  a  lofty 
aim ;  whose  freedom  has  been  my  fatal  dream.  I 
ofTer  to  that  country,  as  a  proof  of  the  love  I  bear 
her,  and  the  sincerity  with  which  I  thought  and  spoke 
and  struggled  for  her  freedom,  the  life  of  a  young 
heart,  and  with  that  life  all  the  hopes,  the  honors,  the 
endearments,  of  a  happy  and  an  honored  home. 
Pronounce,  then,  my  Lords,  the  sentence  which  the 
laws  direct,  and  I  will  be  prepared  to  hear  it.  I  trust 
I  shall  be  prepared  to  meet  its  execution.  I  hope  to 
be  able,  with  a  pure  heart  and  perfect  composure,  to 
appear  before  a  higher  tribunal,  a  tribunal  where  a 
Judge  of  infinite  goodness  as  well  as  of  justice  will 
preside,  and  where,  my  Lords,  many,  njany  of  the 
judgments  of  this  world  will  be  reversed. 

Thomas  Francis  Meaghkr. 


PATRIOTISM   AND   FREEDOM. 


249 


BATTLE  HYMN  Oh  THE  REPUBLIC. 

INE  eyes  have  seen  the  glory  of  the  coming  of 
the  Lord ; 
He  is  trampling  out  the  vintage  where  the 
grapes  of  wrath  are  stored  ! 
He  hath  loosed  tlie  fateful  lightning  of  his  terrible  swift 
sword ; 
His  truth  is  marching  on. 

I  have  seen  him  in  the  watch  fires  of  a  hundred  circling 
camps  ; 

They  have  builded  him  an  altar  in  the  evening  dews 
and  damps : 

I  have  read  his  righteous  sentence  by  the  dim  and  flar- 
ing lamps : 
His  day  is  marching  on. 

I  have  read  a  fiery  gospel  writ  in  burnished  rows  of 

steel : 
"As  ye  deal  with  my  contemners,  so  with  you  my 

grace  shall  deal : 
Let  the  Hero,  born  of  woman,  crush  the  serpent  with 

his  heel, 
Since  God  is  marching  on." 

He  has  sounded  forth  the  trumpet  that  shall  never  call 
retreat ; 

He  is  sifting  out  the  hearts  of  men  before  his  judgment- 
seat ; 

Oh  be  swift  my  soul,  to  answer  him  !  be  jubilant,  my 
feet! 
Our  God  is  marching  on. 

In  the  beauty  of  the  lilies  Christ  was  born  across  the 

sea, 
With  a  glory  in  his  bosom  that  transfigures  you  and  me : 
As  he  died  to  make  men  holy,  let  us  die  to  make  men 
free, 
While  God  is  marching  on. 

Julia  Ward  Howe. 

THE  DRUMMER  BOY. 


U 


© 


AN    INCIDENT  OF  THE  CRIMEAN   WAR. 

APTAIN  GRAHAM,  tlie  men  were  sayin* 
Ye  would  want  a  drummer  lad. 
So  I've  brought  my  boy  Sandie, 
Tho'  my  heart  is  woeful  sad  ; 
But  nae  bread  is  left  to  feed  us, 

And  no  siller  to  buy  more. 
For  the  gudeman  sleeps  forever, 
Where  the  heather  blossoms  o'er. 

"  Sandie,  make  your  manners  quickly. 
Play  your  blithest  measure  true — 
Give  us  '  Flowers  of  Edinboro', 

While  yon  fifer  plays  it  too. 
Captain,  heard  ye  e'er  a  player 
Strike  in  truer  time  than  he  ?" 
"  Nay,  in  truth,  brave  Sandie  Murray 
Drummer  of  our  corps  shall  be." 


"  I  give  ye  thanks — but.  Captain,  maybe 

Ye  will  hae  a  kindly  care 
For  the  friendless,  lonely  laddie, 

When  the  battle  wark  is  sair : 
For  Sandie's  aye  been  good  and  gentle, 

And  I've  nothing  else  to  love. 
Nothing — but  the  grave  off  yonder. 

And  the  Father  up  above." 

Then,  her  rough  hand  gently  laying 

On  the  curl-encircled  head. 
She  blessed  her  boy.     The  tent  was  silent, 

And  not  another  word  was  said  ; 
For  Captain  Graham  was  sadly  dreaming 

Of  a  benison,  long  ago. 
Breathed  above  his  head,  then  golden, 

Bending  now,  and  touched  with  snow. 

"  Good-bye,  Sandie."     "  Good-bye,  mother, 

I'll  come  back  some  summer  day  ; 
Don't  you  fear — they  don't  shoot  drummers 

Ever,     Do  they,  Captain  Gra ? 

One  more  kiss — watch  for  me,  mother, 

You  will  know  'tis  surely  me 
Coming  home — for  you  will  hear  me 

Playing  soft  the  reveille." 

After  battle.     Moonbeams  ghastly 

Seemed  to  link  in  strange  affright, 
As  the  scudding  clouds  before  them 

Shadowed  faces  dead  and  white  ; 
And  the  night-wind  softly  whispered. 

When  low  moans  its  light  wing  bore — 
Moans  that  ferried  spirits  over 

Death's  dark  wave  to  yonder  shore. 

Wandering  where  a  footstep  careless 

Might  go  splashing  down  in  blood. 
Or  a  helpless  hand  lie  grasping 

Death  and  daisies  from  the  sod — 
Captain  Graham  walked  swift  onward, 

While  a  faintly-beaten  drum 
Quickened  heart  and  step  together : 

"  Sandie  Murray  1    See,  I  come  ! 

"  Is  it  thus  I  find  you,  laddie  ? 
Wounded,  lonely,  lying  here, 
Playing  thus  the  reveille  ? 

See — the  morning  is  not  near." 
A  moment  paused  the  drummer  boy, 
And  lifted  up  his  drooping  head  : 
"  Oh,  Captain  Graham,  the  light  is  coming, 
'Tis  morning,  and  my  prayers  are  said. 

"  Morning  I    See,  the  plains  grow  brighter — 

Morning — and  I'm  going  home  ; 
That  is  why  I  play  the  measure, 

Mother  will  not  see  me  come  ; 
But  you'll  tell  her,  won't  you,  Captain — " 

Hush,  the  boy  has  spoken  true  ; 
To  him  the  day  has  dawned  forever, 

Unbroken  by  the  night's  tattoo. 


250 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


SCOTLAND. 

£^  AND  of  my  fathers  ! — though  no  mangrove  here 
•®'  /•     O'er  thy  blue  streams  her  flexile  branches  rear; 
■^^     Nor  scaly  palm  her  fingered  scions  shoot ; 
Nor  luscious  guava  wave  her  yellow  fruit ; 
Nor  golden  apples  glimmer  from  the  tree  ; — 
Land  of  dark  heaths  and  mountains,  thou  art  free  ! 
Untainted  yet,  thy  stream,  fair  Teviot !  runs, 
With  unatondd  blood  of  Gambia's  sons  : 
No  drooping  slave,  with  spirit  bowed  to  toil, 
Grows,  like  the  weed,  self-rooted  to  the  soil, 
Nor  cringing  vassal  on  these  pansied  meads 
Is  bought  and  bartered,  as  the  flock  he  feeds. 
Free  as  the  lark  that  carols  o'er  his  head. 
At  dawn  the  healthy  ploughman  leaves  his  bed, 
Binds  to  the  yoke  his  sturdy  steers  with  care, 
And,  whistling  loud,  directs  the  mining  share  : 
Free  as  his  lord,  the  peasant  treads  the  plain, 
And  heaps  his  harvest  on  the  groaning  wain  ; 
Proud  of  his  laws,  tenacious  of  his  right. 
And  vain  of  Scotia's  old  unconquered  might. 

John  Leyden. 

ARNOLD  WINKELRIED 

In  the  battle  of  Sempach,  in  the  fourteenth  century,  this  martyr- 
patriot,  perceiving  that  there  was  no  other  means  of  breaking  the 
heavy-armed  lines  of  the  Austrians  than  by  gathering  as  many  oi 
their  spears  as  he  could  grasp  together,  opened,  by  this  means,  a 
passage  for  his  fellow-combatants,  who,  with  hammers  and 
hatchets,  hewed  down  the  mailed  men-at-arms  and  won  the  vic- 
tory. 


"ffi 


AKE  way  for  liberty  !  "  he  cried — 
Made  way  for  liberty,  and  died  ! 


♦  In  arms  the  Austrian  phalanx  stood, 

A  living  wall,  a  human  wood  ; 
Impregnable  their  front  appears. 
All  horrent  with  projected  spears. 
Opposed  to  these,  a  hovering  band 
Contended  for  their  fatherland. 
Peasants,  whose  new-found  strength  had  broke 
From  manly  necks  the  ignoble  yoke  ; 
Marshalled  once  more  at  freedom's  call, 
Xhey  came  to  conquer  or  to  fall. 

And  now  the  work  of  life  and  death  , 

Hung  on  the  passing  of  a  breath  ; 

The  fire  of  conflct  burned  within  ; 

The  battle  trembled  to  begin : 

Yet,  while  the  Austrians  held  their  ground 

Point  for  assault  was  nowhere  found  ; 

Where'er  the  impatient  Switzers  gazed. 

The  unbroken  line  of  lances  blazed  ; 

That  line  't  were  suicide  to  meet. 

And  perish  at  their  tyrants'  feet. 

How  could  they  rest  within  their  graves. 

To  leave  their  homes  the  haunts  of  slaves? 

Would  they  not  feel  their  children  tread. 

With  clanking  chains,  above  their  head  ? 


It  must  not  be :  this  day,  this  hour, 

Annihilates  the  invader's  power! 

All  Switzerland  is  in  the  field — 

She  will  not  fly  ;  she  cannot  yield ;  ' 

She  must  not  fall !  her  better  fate 

Here  gives  her  an  immortal  date. 

Few  were  the  numbers  she  could  boast, 

But  every  freeman  was  a  host, 

And  felt  as  if 't  were  a  secret  known 

That  one  should  turn  the  scale  alone, 

While  each  unto  himself  was  he 

On  whose  sole  arm  hung  victory. 

It  did  depend  on  one,  indeed  ; 

Behold  him — Arnold  Winkelried  ! 

There  sounds  not  to  the  trump  of  fame 

The  echo  of  a  nobler  name. 

Unmarked,  he  stood  amid  the  throng, 

In  rumination  deep  and  long, 

Till  you  might  see,  with  sudden  grace. 

The  very  thought  come  o'er  his  face  ; 

And,  by  the  motion  of  his  form. 

Anticipate  the  bursting  storm  ; 

And,  by  the  uplifting  of  his  brow. 

Tell  where  the  bolt  would  strike,  and  how. 

But 't  was  no  sooner  thought  than  done — 

The  field  was  in  a  moment  won  ! 
"  Make  way  for  liberty  !  "  he  cried. 

Then  ran,  with  arms  extended  wide. 

As  if  his  dearest  friend  to  clasp  ; 

Ten  spears  he  swept  within  his  grasp. 
"  Make  way  for  liberty  ! "  he  cried  ; 

Their  keen  points  crossed  from  side  to  side  * 

He  bowed  among  them  like  a  tree. 

And  thus  made  way  for  liberty. 

Swift  to  the  breach  his  comrades  fly — 
"  Make  way  for  liberty  I  "  they  cry. 
And  through  the  Austrian  phalanx  dart. 
As  rushed  the  spears  through  Arnold's  heart ; 
While,  instantaneous  as  his  lall, 
Rout,  ruin,  panic  seized  them  all. 
An  earthquake  could  not  overthrow 
A  city  with  a  surer  blow. 

Thus  Switzerland  again  was  free — 
Thus  death  made  way  for  liberty. 

James  Montgomery. 


DIE  WACHT  AM  RHEIN— (THE  WATCH  ON 
THE  RHINE.) 


a 


ROAR  like  thunder  strikes  the  ear, 
Like  clang  of  arms  or  breakers  near, 
"  On  for  the  Rhine,  the  German  Rhine  ! " 
"Who  shields  thee,  my  beloved  Rhine?" 
Dear  Fatherland,  thou  need'st  not  fear — 
Thy  Rhineland  watch  stands  firmly  here. 

A  hundred  thousand  hearts  beat  high. 
The  flash  darts  forth  from  every  eye, 


PATRIOTISM   AND   FREEDOM. 


251 


For  Teutons  brave,  inured  by  toil, 
Protect  their  country's  holy  soil. 
Dear  Fatherland,  thou  need'st  not  fear — 
Thy  Rhineland  watch  stands  firmly  here. 

The  heart  may  break  in  agony, 
Yet  Frenchmen  thou  shall  never  be. 
In  water  rich  is  Rhine ;  thy  flood, 
Germania,  rich  in  heroes'  blood. 
Dear  Fatherland,  thou  need'st  not  fear — 
Thy  Rhineland  watch  stands  firmly  here. 

When  heavenward  ascends  the  eye. 
Our  heroes'  ghosts  look  down  from  high; 
We  swear  to  guard  our  dear  bequest, 
And  shTeld  it  with  the  German  breast. 
Dear  Fatherland,  thou  need'st  not  fear — 
Thy  Rhineland  watch  stands  firmly  here. 

As  long  as  German  blood  still  glows. 
The  German  sword  strikes  mighty  blows, 
And  German  marksmen  take  their  stand, 
No  foe  shall  tread  our  native  land. 
Dear  Fatherland,  thou  need'st  not  fear — 
Thy  Rhineland  watch  stands  firmly  here. 

We  take  the  pledge.    The  stream  runs  by ; 
Our  banners  proud,  are  wafting  high. 
On  for  the  Rhine,  the  German  Rhine  ! 
We  all  die  for  our  native  Rhine. 
Hence,  Fatherland,  be  of  good  cheer — 
Thy  Rhineland  watch  stands  firmly  here. 


THE  PATRIOT'S  BRIDE. 

H  !  give  me  back  that  royal  dream 
My  fancy  wrought. 
When  I  have  seen  your  sunny  eyes 
Grow  moist  with  thought ; 
And  fondly  hoped,  dear  love,  your  heart  from  mine 

Its  spell  had  caught ; 
And  laid  me  down  to  dream  that  dream  divine. 
But  true,  methought. 
Of  how  my  life's  long  task  would  be,  to  make  yours 
blessed  as  it  ought. 

To  learn  to  love  sweet  nature  more 

For  your  sweet  sake, 
To  watch  with  you — dear  friend,  with  you  ! — 

Its  wonders  break ; 
The  sparkling  spring  in  that  bright  face  to  see 

Its  mirror  make — 
On  summer  morns  to  hear  the  sweet  birds  sing 

By  linn  and  lake  ; 
And  know  your  voice,  your  magic  voice,  could  still  a 
grander  music  wake  ! 

To  wake  the  old  weird  world  that  sleeps 

In  Irish  lore ; 
The  strains  sweet  foreign  Spenser  sung 

By  Mulla's  shore ; 


Dear  Curran's  airy  thoughts,  like  purple  birds 

That  shine  and  soar ; 
Tone's  fiery  hopes,  and  all  the  deathless  vows 
That  Grattan  swore ; 
The  songs  that  once  our  own  dear  Davis  sung — ah  me  ! 
to  sing  no  more. 

And  all  those  proud  old  victor-fields 

We  thrill  to  name, 
Whose  memories  are  the  stars  that  light 

Long  nights  of  shame  ; 
The  Cairn,  the  Dan,  the  Rath,  the  Power,  the  Keep, 

That  still  proclaim 
In  chronicles  of  clay  and  stone,  how  true,  how  deep 

Was  Eire's  fame ; 
Oh  !   we  shall  see  them  all,  with  her,  that  dear,  dear 
friend  we  two  have  loved  the  same. 

Yet  ah  !  how  truer,  tenderer  still 

Methought  did  seem 
That  scene  of  tranquil  joy,  that  happy  home 

By  Dodder's  stream. 
The  morning  smile,  that  grew  a  fix^d  star 

With  love-lit  beam, 
The  ringing  laugh,  locked  hands,  and  all  the  far 

And  shining  stream 
Of  daily  love,  that  made  our  daily  life  diviner  than  a 
dream. 

For  still  to  me,  dear  friend,  dear  love, 

Or  both — dear  wife, 
Your  image  comes  with  serious  thoughts, 

But  tender,  rife ; 
No  idle  plaything  to  caress  or  chide 

In  sport  or  strife, 
But  my  best  chosen  friend,  companion,  guide, 
To  walk  through  life, 
Linked  hand  in  hand,  two  equal,  loving  friends,  true 
husband  and  true  wife. 

Sir  Charles  Gavan  Duffy. 


THE  PILGRIMS. 

OW  slow  yon  tiny  vessel  ploughs  the  main  ! 
Amid  the  heavy  billows  now  she  seems 
A  toiling  atom — then  from  wave  to  wave 
Leaps  madly,  by  the  tempest  lashed — or  reels, 
Half  wrecked,  through  gulfs  profound. 

— Moons,  wax  and  wane. 
But  still  that  lonely  traveler  treads  the  deep. — 
I  see  an  ice-bound  coast,  toward  which  she  steers 
With  such  a  tardy  movement,  that  it  seems 
Stern  winter's  hand  hath  turned  her  keel  to  stone, 
And  sealed  his  victory  on  her  slippery  shrouds. — 
They  land  ! — They  land  ! — not  like  the  Genoese, 
With  glittering  sword  and  gaudy  train,  and  eye 
Kindling  with  golden  fancies. — Forth  they  come 
From  their  long  prison— hardy  forms,  that  brave 
The  world's  unkindness — men  of  hoary  hair, 
And  virgins  of  firm  heart,  and  matrons  grave. 


252 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


Who  hush  the  wailing  infant  with  a  glance. — 
Bleak  nature's  desolation  wraps  them  round, 
Eternal  forests  and  unyielding  earth, 
And  savage  men,  who  through  the  thickets  peer 
With  vengeful  arrow. — What  could  lure  their  steps 
To  this  dreary  desert? — Ask  of  him  who  left 
His  father's  home  to  roam  through  Haran's  wilds, 
Distrusting  not  the  Guide  who  called  him  forth. 
Nor  doubting,  though  a  stranger,  that  his  seed 
Should  be  as  ocean's  sands. — 

And  can  ye  deem  it  strange 
That  from  their  planting  such  a  branch  should  bloom 
As  nations  envy. — Would  a  germ,  embalmed 
With  prayer's  pure  tear-drops,  strike  no  deeper  root 
Than  that  which  mad  ambition's  hand  doth  strew 
Upon  the  winds,  to  reap  the  winds  again  ? 
Hid  by  its  veil  of  waters  from  the  hand 
Of  greedy  Europe,  their  bold  vine  spread  forth 
In  giant  strength. — 

Its  early  clusters  crushed 
In  England's  wine-press,  gave  the  tyrant  host 
A  draught  of  deadly  wine.     O,  ye  who  boast 
In  your  free  veins  the  blood  of  sires  like  these, 
Lose  not  their  lineaments  !  Should  Mammon  cling 
Too  close  around  your  heart — or  wealth  beget 
That  bloated  luxury  which  eats  the  core 
From  manly  virtue— or  the  tempting  world 
Make  faint  the  Christian  purpose  in  your  soul. 
Turn  ye  to  Plymouth's  beach — and  on  that  rock 
Kneel  in  their  foot-prints,  and  renew  the  vow 
They  breathed  to  God. 

LvDiA  Huntley  Sigourney. 


a 


O' 


THE  PICKET  GUARD. 

'LL  quiet  along  the  Potomac,"  they  say, 
**  Except  now  and  then  a  stray  picket 
Is  shot,  as  he  walks  on  his  beat,  to  and 
fro, 
By  a  rifleman  hid  in  the  thicket. 
'Tis  nothing  ;  a  private  or  two,  now  and  then. 

Will  not  count  in  the  news  of  the  battle  ; 
Not  an  officer  lost — only  one  of  the  men, 
Moaning  out,  all  alone,  the  death  rattle." 

All  quiet  along  the  Potomac  to-night, 

Where  the  soldiers  lie  peacefully  dreaming  ; 
Their  tents  in  the  rays  of  the  clear  autumn  moon. 

Or  the  light  of  the  watch-fires,  are  gleaming. 
A  tremulous  sigh,  as  the  gentle  night- wind 

Through  the  forest  leaves  softly  is  creeping  ; 
While  stars  up  above,  with  their  glittering  eyes, 

Keep  guard— for  the  army  is  sleeping. 

There's  only  the  sound  of  the  lone  sentry's  tread 
As  he  tramps  from  the  rock  to  the  fountain. 

And  he  thinks  of  the  two  in  the  low  trundle-bed. 
Far  away  in  the  cot  on  the  mountain. 


His  musket  falls  slack  ;  his  face,  dark  and  grim, 

Grows  gentle  with  memories  tender, 
As  he  mutters  a  prayer  for  the  children  asleep, 

For  their  mother — may  Heaven  defend  her ! 

The  moon  seems  to  shine  just  as  brightly  as  then, 

That  night  when  the  love  yet  unspoken 
Leaped  up  to  his  lips — when  low,  murmured  vows 

Were  pledged  to  be  ever  unbroken  ; 
Then  drawing  his  sleeve  roughly  over  his  eyes, 

He  dashes  off  tears  that  are  welling, 
And  gathers  his  gun  closer  up  to  its  place. 

As  if  to  keep  down  the  heart-swelling. 

He  passes  the  fountain,  the  blasted  pine-tree — 

The  footstep  is  lagging  and  weary  ; 
Yet  onward  he  goes,  through  the  broad  belt  of  light, 

Toward  the  shades  of  the  forest  so  dreary. 
Hark  !  was  it  the  night-wind  that  rustled  the  leaves? 

Was  it  moonlight  so  wondrously  flashing? 
It  looked  like  a  rifle  :  "  Ha  !  Mary,  good-by !" 

And  the  life-blood  is  ebbing  and  plashing. 

All  quiet  along  the  Potomac  to-night — 

No  sound  save  the  rush  of  the  river ; 
While  soft  falls  the  dew  on  the  face  of  the  dead — 

The  picket's  off"  duty  forever. 

Ethelin  Eliot  Beers. 


THE  BIVOUAC  OF  THE  DEAD. 

'HE  muffled  drum's  sad  roll  has  beat 
The  soldier's  last  tattoo  ; 
No  more  on  life's  parade  shall  meet 
The  brave  and  fallen  few. 
On  fame's  eternal  camping-ground 

Their  silent  tents  are  spread. 
And  glory  guards  with  solemn  round 
The  bivouac  of  the  dead. 

No  rumor  of  the  foe's  advance 

Now  swells  upon  the  wind, 
No  troubled  thought  at  midnight  haunts 

Of  loved  ones  left  behind  ; 
No  vision  of  the  morrow's  strife 

The  warrior's  dream  alarms, 
No  braying  horn  or  screaming  fife 

At  dawn  shall  call  to  arms. 

Their  shivered  swords  are  red  with  rust, 

Their  plumed  heads  are  bowed, 
Their  haughty  banner  trailed  in  dust 

Is  now  their  martial  shroud — 
And  plenteous  funeral  tears  have  washed 

The  red  stains  from  each  brow, 
And  the  proud  forms  by  battle  gashed 

Are  free  from  anguish  now. 

The  neighing  troop,  the  flashing  blade. 

The  bugle's  stirring  blast. 
The  charge,  the  dreadful  cannonade. 

The  din  and  shout  are  passed — 


PATRIOTISM   AND   FREEDOM. 


253 


Nor  war's  wild  note,  nor  glory's  peal, 

Shall  thrill  with  fierce  delight 
Those  breasts  that  never  more  may  feejt 

The  rapture  of  the  fight. 

Like  the  fierce  northern  hurricane 

That  sweeps  his  great  plateau, 
Flushed  with  the  triumph  yet  to  gain 

Came  down  the  serried  foe — 
Who  heard  the  thunder  of  the  fray 

Break  o'er  the  field  beneath, 
Knew  well  the  watchword  of  that  day 

Was  victory  or  death. 

Full  many  a  mother's  breath  hath  swept 

O'er  Angostura's  plain, 
And  long  the  pitying  sky  has  wept 

Above  its  mouldered  slain. 
The  raven's  scream,  or  eagle's  flight, 

Or  shepherd's  pensive  lay, 
Alone  noV  wake  each  solemn  height 

That  frowned  o'er  that  dead  fray. 

Sons  of  the  dark  and  bloody  ground, 

Ye  must  not  slumber  there, 
Where  stranger  steps  and  tongues  resound 

Along  the  heedless  air ! 
Your  own  proud  land's  heroic  soil 

Shall  be  your  fitter  grave  ; 


She  claims  from  war  its  richest  spoil — 
^  The  ashes  of  her  brave. 

Thus  'neath  their  parent  turf  they  rest, 
"     Far  from  the  gory  field. 
Borne  to  a  Spartan  mother's  breast 

On  many  a  bloody  shield. 
The  sunshine  of  their  native  sky 

Shines  sadly  on  them  here. 
And  kindred  eyes  and  hearts  watch  by 

The  heroes'  sepulchre. 

Rest  on,  embalmed  and  sainted  dead  ! 

Dear  as  the  blood  ye  gave  ; 
No  impious  footstep  here  shall  tread 

The  herbage  of  your  grave  ! 
Nor  shall  your  glory  be  forgot 

While  fame  her  record  keeps, 
Or  honor  points  the  hallowed  spot 

Where  valor  proudly  sleejjs. 

Yon  marble  minstrel's  voiceless  stone 

In  deathless  song  shall  tell. 
When  many  a  vanished  year  hath  flown. 

The  story  how  ye  fell ; 
Nor  wreck,  nor  change,  nor  winter's  blight. 

Nor  time's  remorseless  doom, 
Can  dim  one  ray  of  holy  light 

That  gilds  your  glorious  tomb. 

Theodore  O'Hara. 


SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION, 


THE  CREOLE  LOVER'S  SONG. 


IGHT  wind,  whispering 
wind,   wind    of  the 
Carib  sea ; 
The  palms  and  the  still 
?"3^  lagoon, 

Long  for  thy  coming  soon  ; 
But  first  my  lady  find  : 
Haste  nor  look  behind, 
To-night,  to-night,  love's  her- 
ald be. 

The  feathery  bamboo  moves, 
the  dewy  plantains  weep ; 
From    the    jasmine    thicket 

bear 
The  scents  that  are  swooning 
there. 

And  steal  from  the  orange  groves 
The  breath  of  a  thousand  loves, 
To  bear  her  ere  she  sleep. 

And  the  lone  bird's  tender  song  that  rings  from  the 
ceiba  tree ; 

The  fire-fly's  light  and  the  glow 

Of  the  moonlit  waters  low — 

All  things  that  to-night  belong. 

And  can  do  my  love  no  wrong. 
Bear  her  this  hour  for  me. 

Speed  thee,  speed  thee,  wind  of  the  deep,  for  the  cy- 
clone comes  in  wrath, 

The  distant  forests  moan : 

Thou  hast  but  an  hour  thine  own, 

An  hour  thy  tryst  to  keep. 

Ere  the  hounds  of  tempest  leap, 
And  follow  upon  thy  path. 

Whisperer;  tarry  a  space,  she  waits  for  thee  in  the 
night. 

She  leans  from  her  casement  there, 

With  the  star-blooms  in  her  hair. 

And  a  shadow  falls  like  lace 

From  the  fern-tree  over  her  face, 
And  over  henmantle  white. 

Spirit  of  air  and  fire,  to-night  my  herald  be  ; 

Tell  her  I  love  her  well. 

And  air  that  I  bid  the  tell. 

And  fold  her  ever  the  nigher, 

With'tfte  strength  of  my  soul's  desire  : 
Wind,  wind-ofi  the  Carib  sea. 


ELEGY  WRITTEN 


IN  A  COUNTRY  CHURCH- 
YARD. 


*HE  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day, 

The  lowing  herd  winds  slowly  o'er  the  ka  ; 
The  ploughman  homeward  plods  his  weary 
t  way, 

And  leaves  the  world  to  darkness  gind  to  me. 

Now  fades  the  glimmering  landscape  on  the  sight. 
And  all  the  air  a  solemn  stillness  holds, 

Save  where  the  beetle  wheels  his  droning  flight, 
And  drowsy  tinklings  lull  the  distant  folds ; 

Save  that  from  yonder  ivy-mantled  tower 
The  moping  owl  doth  to  the  moon  complain 

Of  such  as,  wandering  near  her  secret  bower. 
Molest  her  ancient  solitary  reign. 

Beneath  those  rugged  elms,  that  yew-tree's  shade, 
Where  heaves  the  turf  in  many  a  mouldering  heap, 

Each  in  his  narrow  cell  forever  laid, 
The  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep. 

The  breezy  call  of  incense-breathing  morn, 
The  swallow  twittering  from  the  straw-t)uilt  shed, 

The  cock's  shrill  clarion,  or  the  echoing  horn. 
No  more  shall  rouse  them  from  their  lowly  bed. 

For  them  no  more  the  blazing  hearth  shall  burn. 
Or  busy  housewife  ply  her  evening  care  ; 

No  children  run  to  lisp  their  sire's  return, 
Or  climb  his  knees  the  envied  kiss  to  share. 

Oft  did  the  harvest  to  their  sickle  yield. 
Their  furrow  oft  the  stubborn  glebe  has  broke  ; 

How  jocund  did  they  drive  their  team  afield  ! 
How  bowed  the  woods  beneath  their  sturdy  stroke ! 

Let  not  ambition  mock  their  useful  toil. 
Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  obscure  ; 

Nor  grandeur  hear  with  a  disdainful  smile 
The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor. 

The  boast  of  heraldry,  the  pomp  of  power, 
And  all  that  beauty,  all  that  wealth  e'er  gave. 

Await  alike  the  inevitable  hour  ; — 
The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave. 

Nor  you,  ye  proud,  impute  to  these  the  fault. 
If  memory  o'er  their  tomb  no  trophies  raise, 

Where  through  the  long-drawn  aisle  and  fretted  vault 
The  pealing  anthem  swells  the  note  of  praise. 


Can  storied  urn  or  animated  bust 

Back  to  its  mansion  call  the  fleeting  breath  ? 
'  Can  honor's  voice  provoke  the  silent  dust, 
I     Or  flattery  soothe  the  dull,  cold  ear  of  death  ? 
(254) 


SENTIMENT  AND    REFLECTION. 


255 


Perhaps  in  this  neglected  spot  is  laid 
Some  heart  once  pregnant  with  celestial  fire  ; 

Hands  that  the  rod  of  empire  might  have  swayed, 
Or  waked  to  ecstasy  the  living  lyre  : 

But  knowledge  to  their  eyes  her  ample  page, 
Rich  with  the  spoils  of  time,  did  ne'er  unroll ; 

Chill  penury  repressed  their  noble  rage, 
And  froze  the  genial  current  of  the  sopl. 

Full  many  a  gem  of  purest  ray  serene 
The  dark,  unfathomed  caves  of  ocean  bear ; 

Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen, 
And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air. 

Some  village  Hampden,  that  with  dauntless  breast 
The  little  tyrant  of  his  fields  withstood  ; 

Some  mute,  inglorious  Milton  here  may  rest ; 
Some  Cromwell,  guiltless  of  his  country's  blood. 

The  applause  of  listening  senates  to  command. 
The  threats  of  pain  and  ruin  to  despise, 

To  scatter  plenty  o'er  a  smiling  land. 
And  read  their  history  in  a  nation's  eyes, 

Their  lot  forbade  :  nor  circumscribed  alone 

Their  growing  virtues,  but  their  crimes  confined ; 

Forbade  to  wade  through  slaughter  to  a  throne. 
And  shut  the  gates  of  mercy  on  mankind  ; 

The  struggling  pangs  of  conscious  truth  to  hide. 
To  quench  the  blushes  of  ingenuous  shame, 

Or  heap  the  shrine  of  luxury  and  pride 
With  incense  kindled  at  the  muse's  flame. 

Far  from  the  madding  crowd's  ignoble  strife 
Their  sober  wishes  never  learned  to  stray ; 

Along  the  cool,  sequestered  vale  of  life 
They  kept  the  noiseless  tenor  of  their  way. 

Yet  e'en  these  bones  from  insult  to  protect. 
Some  frail  memorial  still  erected  nigh, 

With  uncouth  rhymes  and  shapeless  sculpture  decked. 
Implores  the  passing  tribute  of  a  sigh. 

Their  name,  their  years,  spelt  by  the  unlettered  muse, 

The  place  of  fame  and  elegy  supply  ; 
And  many  a  holy  text  around  she  strews, 

That  teach  the  rustic  moralist  to  die. 

For  who,  to  dumb  forgetfulness  a  prey. 
This  pleasing,  anxious  being  e'er  resigned, 

Left  the  warm  precincts  of  the  cheerful  day, 
Nor  cast  one  longing,  lingering  look  behind  ? 

On  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul  relies. 
Some  pious  drops  the  closing  eye  requires  ; 

E'en  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of  nature  cries, 
E'en  in  our  ashes  live  their  wonted  fires. 

For  thee,  who,  mindful  of  the  unhonored  dead, 
Dost  in  these  lines  Iieir  artless  tale  relate  ; 

If  'chance,  by  lonely  contemplation  led, 
Some  kindred  spirit  shall  inquire  thy  fate, 


Haply  some  hoary-headed  swain  may  say  : 
"Oft  have  we  seen  him  at  the  peep  of  dawn, 

Brushing  with  hasty  steps  the  dews  away, 
To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  upland  lawn. 

"There  at  the  foot  of  yonder  nodding  beech, 
That  wreathes  its  old,  fantastic  roots  so  high. 

His  listless  length  at  noontide  would  he  stretch, 
And  pore  upon  the  brook  that  babbles  by. 

"  Hard  by  yon  wood,  now  smiling  as  in  scorn, 
Muttering  his  wayward  fancies,  he  would  rove  ; 

Now  drooping,  woeful,  wan,  like  one  forlorn. 
Or  crazed  with  care,  or  crossed  in  hopeless  love. 

"One  morn  I  missed  him  on  the  'customed  hill. 
Along  the  heath,  and  near  his  favorite  tree  ; 

Another  came — nor  yet  beside  the  rill. 

Nor  up  the  lawn,  nor  at  the  wood  was  he  ; 

"  The  next,  with  dirges  due,  in  sad  array. 
Slow  through  the  church-way  path  we  saw  him  borne ; — 
Approach  and  read  (for  thou  canst  read)  the  lay 
Graved  on  the  stone  beneath  yon  aged  thorn.'' 

THE  EPITAPH. 

Here  rests  his  head  upon  the  lap  of  earth, 
A  youth  to  fortune  and  to  fame  unknown  ; 

Fair  science  frowned  not  on  his  humble  birth, 
And  melancholy  marked  him  for  her  own. 

Large  was  his  bounty,  and  his  soul  sincere ; 

Heaven  did  a  recompense  as  largely  send  . 
He  gave  to  misery  all  he  had— a  tear  ; 

He  gained  from  Heaven  ('t  was  all  he  wished)  a  friend. 

No  further  seek  his  merits  to  disclose. 
Or  draw  his  frailties  from  their  dread  abode : 

(There  they  alike  in  trembling  hope  repose,) 
The  bosom  of  his  Father  and  his  God. 


EXPECTATION. 

H,  never  sit  we  down,  and  say 

There's  nothing  left  but  sorrow  ! 
We  walk  the  wilderness  to-day, 
The  promised  land  to-morrow. 

And  though  age  wearies  by  the  way, 

And  hearts  break  in  the  furrow. 
We'll  sow  the  golden  grain  to-day, 

And  harvest  comes  to-morrow. 

Build  up  heroic  lives,  and  all 

Be  like  a  sheathen  sabre. 
Ready  to  flash  out  at  God's  call, 

O  chivalry  of  labor  ! 

Triumph  and  toil  are  twins ;  and  aye 

Joy  suns  the  cloud  of  sorrow ; 
And  't  is  the  martyrdom  to-day 

Brings  victory  to-morrow. 

Gerald  Massey, 


256 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


A  PSALM  OF  LIFE. 

*ELL  me  not,  in  mournful  numbers, 
"  Life  is  but  an  empty  dream  ! 
For  the  soul  is  dead  that  slumbers, 
'f  And  things  are  not  what  they  seem." 

Life  is  real !  life  is  earnest ! 
And  the  grave  is  not  its  goal  ; 
"  Dust  thou  art,  to  dust  returnest," 
Was  not  spoken  of  the  soul. 

Not  enjoyment,  and  not  sorrow, 

Is  our  destined  end  or  way  ; 
But  to  act,  that  each  to-morrow, 

Find  us  farther  than  to-day. 

Art  is  long,  and  time  is  fleeting, 
And  our  hearts,  though  stout  and  brave, 

Still,  like  muffled  drums,  are  beating 
Funeral  marches  to  the  grave. 

In  the  world's  broad  field  of  battle. 

In  the  bivouac  of  life. 
Be  not  like  dumb,  driven  cattle  ! 

Be  a  hero  in  the  strife  ! 

Trust  no  future,  howe'er  pleasant ! 

Let  the  dead  past  bury  its  dead  ! 
Act — act  in  the  living  present ! 

Heart  within,  and  God  o'erhead. 

Lives  of  great  men  all  remind  us 
We  can  make  our  lives  sublime. 

And,  departing,  leave  behind  us 
Footprints  on  the  sands  of  time  : 

Footprints,  that  perhaps  another. 

Sailing  o'er  life's  solemn  main, 
A  forlorn  and  shipwrecked  brother. 

Seeing,  shall  take  heart  again. 

Let  us,  then,  be  up  and  doing. 

With  a  heart  for  any  fate  ; 
Still  achieving,  still  pursuing, 

Learn  to  labor  and  to  wait. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


THOSE  EVENING  BELLS. 

'  HOSE  evening  bells  !  those  evening  bells ! 
How  many  a  tale  their  music  tells 
Of  youth,  and  home,  and  that  sweet  time 
When  last  I  heard  their  soothing  chime  ! 

Those  joyous  hours  are  passed  away ; 
And  many  a  heart  that  then  was  gay. 
Within  the  tomb  now  darkly  dwells. 
And  hears  no  more  those  evening  bells. 

And  so  'twill  be  when  I  am  gone — 
That  tunefeul  peal  will  still  ring  on  ; 
While  other  bards  shall  walk  these  dells, 
And  sing  your  praise,  sweet  evening  bells. 

Thomas  Moork. 


THE  MAGICAL  ISLE. 

'HERE  'S  a  magical  isle  in  the  River  of  Time, 

Where  softest  of  echoes  are  straying  ; 

And  the  air  is  as  soft  as  a  musical  chime, 

Or  the  exquisite  breath  of  a  tropical  clime 

When  June  with  its  roses  is  swaying. 

'Tis  where  memory  dwells  with  her  pure  golden  hue, 

And  music  forever  is  flowing  : 
While  the  low-murmured  tones  that  come  trembling 

through 
Sadly  trouble  the  heart,  yet  sweeten  it  too. 

As  the  south  wind  o'er  water  when  blowing. 

There  are  shadowy  halls  in  that  fairy-like  isle. 
Where  pictures  of  beauty  are  gleaming  ; 

Yet  the  light  of  their  eyes,   and  their  sweet,  sunny 
smile. 

Only  flash  round  the  heart  with  a  wildering  wile. 
And  leave  us  to  know  'tis  but  dreaming. 

And  the  name  of  this  isle  is  the  Beautiful  Past, 

And  we  bury  our  treasures  all  there  : 
There  are  beings  of  beauty  too  lovely  to  last ; 
There  are  blossoms  of  snow,  with  the  dust  o'er  them 
cast; 

There  are  tresses  and  ringlets  of  hair. 

There  are  fragments  of  song  only  memory  sing^. 
And  the  words  of  a  dear  mother's  prayer  ; 

There's  a  harp  long  unsought,   and  a  lute  without 
strings — 
Hallowed  tokens  that  love  used  to  wear. 

E'en  the  dead — the  bright,  beautiful  dead — there  arise. 
With  their  soft,  flowing  ringlets  of  gold  : 

Though  their  voices  are  hushed,  and  o'er  their  sweet 
eyes. 

The  unbroken  signet  of  silence  now  lies. 
They  are  with  us  again,  as  of  old. 

In  the  stillness  of  night,  hands  are  beckoning  there. 

And,  with  joy  that  is  almost  a  pain, 
We  delight  to  turn  back,  and  in  wandering  there, 
Through  the  shadowy  halls  of  the  island  so  fair. 

We  behold  our  lost  treasures  again. 

Oh  !  this  beautiful  isle,  with  its  phantom-like  show, 

Is  a  vista  exceedingly  bright : 
And  the  River  of  Time,  in  its  turbulent  flow, 
Is  oft  soothed  by  the  voices  we  heard  long  ago. 

When  the  years  were  a  dream  of  delight. 


TRUE  NOBILITY. 

'OWE'ER  it  be,  it  seems  to  me, 
'Tis  only  noble  to  be  good  ; 
Kind  hearts  are  more  than  coronets. 
And  simple  faith  than  Norman  blood. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


SENTIMENT  AND   REFLECTION. 


257 


A  THING  OF  BEAUTY  IS  A  JOY  FOREVER. 


Q 


THING  of  beauty  is  a  joy  forever : 
Its  loveliness  increases  ;  it  will  never 
Pass  into  nothingness  ;  but  still  will  keep 
A  bower  quiet  for  us,  and  a  sleep 
Full  of  sweet  dreams,  and  health,  and  quiet  breathing ; 
Therefore,  on  every  morrow,  are  we  wreathing 
A  flowery  band  to  bind  us  to  the  earth, 
Spite  ot  despondence,  of  the  inhuman  dearth 
Of  noble  natures,  of  the  gloomy  days. 
Of  all  the  unhealthy  and  o'erdarkened  ways 
Made  for  our  searchmg  :  yes,  in  spite  of  all, 
Some  shape  of  beauty  moves  away  the  pall 
From  our  dark  spirits.     Such  the  sun,  the  moon, 
Trees  old  and  young,  sprouting  a  shady  boon 
For  simple  sheep  ;  and  such  are  daffodils 
With  the  green  world  they  live  in  ;  and  clear  rills 
That  for  themselves  a  cooling  covert  make 
'Gainst  the  hot  season  ;  the  mid-forest  brake. 
Rich  with  a  sprinkling  of  fair  musk-rose  blooms  : 
And  such,  too,  is  the  grandeur  of  the  dooms 
We  have  imagined  for  the  mighty  dead  ; 
All  lovely  tales  that  we  have  heard  or  read. 

John  Keats. 


THE  EMIGRANT'S  FAREWELL 

UR  native  land — our  native  vale — 
A  long  and  last  adieu  ! 
Farewell  to  bonny  Teviotdale, 
And  Cheviot  mountains  blue. 

Farewell,  ye  hills  of  glorious  deeds, 
And  streams  renowned  in  song- 
Farewell,  ye  braes  and  blossomed  meads. 
Our  hearts  have  loved  so  long. 

The  mossy  cave  and  mouldering  tower 

That  skirt  our  native  dell — 
The  martyr's  grave,  and  lover's  bower, 

We  bid  a  sad  farewell  ! 

Home  of  our  love  !  our  father's  home  ! 

Land  of  the  brave  and  free  ! 
The  sail  is^flapping  on  the  foam 

That  bears  us  far  from  thee  ! 

We  seek  a  wild  and  distant  shore, 

Beyond  the  western  main — 
We  leave  thee  to  return  no  more, 

Nor  view  thy  cliffs  again  ! 

Our  native  land — our  native  vale — 

A  long  and  last  adieu  ! 
Farewell  to  bonny  Teviotdale, 

And  Scotland's  mountains  blue  ! 

Thomas  Pringle. 
17 


A  BUTTERFLY  ON  A  CHILD'S  GRAVE. 

BUTTERFLY  basked  on  a  baby's  grave, 

Where  a  lily  had  chanced  to  grow  : 
"Why  art  thou  here,  with  thy  gaudy  dye, 
When  she  of  the  blue  and  sparkling  eye 
Must  sleep  in  the  churchyard  low? " 

Then  it  lightly  soared  through  the  sunny  air, 

And  spoke  from  its  shining  track  : 
"  I  was  a  worm  till  I  won  my  wings, 
And. she  whom  thou  mournest,  like  a  seraph  sings 

Wouldst  thou  call  the  blest  one  back  ? " 

LVDIA   HUNTLEV   SiGOURNEY. 


THEOLOGY  IN  THE  QUARTERS. 

OW,  I's  got  a  notion  in  my  head  dat  when  you 
come  to  die, 
An'  Stan'  de  'zamination  in  de  Cote-house  in 
de  sky, 
You'll  be  'stonished  at  de  questions  dat  de  angel's 

gwine  to  ax 
When  he  gits  you  on  de  witness-stan'  an'  pin  you  to 

de  fac's  ; 
'Cause  he'll  ax  you  mighty  closely  'bout  your  doin's  in 

de  night, 
An'  de  water-milion  question's  gwine  to  bodder  you 

a  sight ! 
Den  your  eyes'Il  open  wider  dan  dey  ebber  done  befo' 
When  he  chats  you  'bout  a  chicken-scrape  dat  hap- 
pened long  ago  1 
De  angels  on  de  picket-line  erlong  de  Milky  Way 
Keeps  a-watchin'  what  you're  dribin'  at,  an'  hearin' 

what  you  say ; 
No  matter  what  you  want  to  do,  no  matter  whar  you's 

gwine, 
Dey's  mighty  ap'  to  find  it  out  an'  pass  it  'long  de 

line ; 
An'  of  en  at  de  meetin',  when  you  make  a  fuss  an' 

laugh, 
Why,  dey  send  de  news   a-kitin'   by  de  golden  tele 

graph ; 
Den,  de  angel  in  de  orfis,  what's  a  settin'  by  de  gate, 
Jes'  reads  de  message  wid  a  look  an'  claps  it  on  da 

slate ! 

Den  you  better  do  your  juty  well  an'  keep  your  con- 
science clear, 

An'  keep  a-lookin  straight  ahead  an'  watchin'  whar* 
you  steer ; 

'Cause  arter  while  de  time'll  come  to  journey  fum  de 
Ian', 

An'  dey'll  take  you  way  up  in  de  a'r  an'  put  you  onde 
Stan' ; 

Den  you'll  hab  to  listen  to  de  clerk  an'  answer  mighty 
straight, 

Ef  you  ebber  'spec'  to  trabble  froo  de  alaplaster  gate ! 

J.  A.  Macon. 


258 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


THE  WIDOW   AND  CHILD. 

'OME  they  brought  her  warrior  dead ; 
She  nor  swooned,  nor  uttered  cry  ; 
All  her  maidens,  watching,  said, 
"  She  must  weep  or  she  will  die." 

Then  they  praised  him,  soft  and  low. 

Called  him  worthy  to  be  loved, 
Truest  friend  and  noblest  foe ; 

Yet  she  neither  spoke  nor  moved. 

Stole  a  maiden  from  her  place, 

Lightly  to  the  warrior  stept. 
Took  a  face-cloth  from  the  face ; 
Yet  she  neither  moved  nor  wept. 

Rose  a  nurse  of  ninety  years. 

Set  his  child  upon  her  knee — 
Like  summer  tempest  came  her  tears — 

"Sweet  my  child,  I  live  for  thee." 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


OH!    WHY  SHOULD  THE  SPIRIT  OF 
MORTAL  BE  PROUD? 

The  following  was  the  favorite  poem  of  President  Lincoln.  A 
friend  showed  it  to  him  when  a  young  man,  and  afterwards  he 
clipped  it  from  a  newspaper  and  learned  it  by  heart.  For  a  long 
time  he  did  not  know  the  author's  name,  but  subsequently  learned 
it.       /CN 

H  !  why  should  the  spirit  of  mortal  be  proud  ? 
Like  a  swift-fleeting  meteor,  a  fast-flying 

cloud, 
A  flash  of  the  lightning,  a  break  of  the  wave 
Man  passeth  from  life  to  his  rest  in  the  grave. 

The  leaves  of  the  oak  and  the  willow  shall  fade, 
Be  scattered  around,  and  together  be  laid  ; 
And  the  young  and  the  old,  and  the  low  and  the  high 
Shall  molderto  dust  and  together  shall  lie. 

The  infant  a  mother  attended  and  loved  ; 
The  mother  that  infant's  affection  who  proved; 
The  husband  that  mother  and  infant  who  blessed — 
Each,  all,  are  away  to  their  dwellings  of  rest. 

The  maid  on  whose  cheek,  on  whose  brow,  in  whose 

eye, 
Shone  beauty  and  pleasure — her  triumphs  are  by  ; 
And  the  memory  of  those  who  loved  her  and  praised 
Are  alike  from  the  minds  of  the  living  erased. 

The  hand  of  the  king  that  the  sceptre  hath  borne; 
The  brow  of  the  priest  that  the  mitre  hath  worn; 
The  eye  of  the  sage,  and  the  heart  of  the  brave, 
Are  hidden  and  lost  in  the  depth  of  the  grave. 

The  peasant  whose  lot  was  to  sow  and  to  reap  ; 

The  herdsman  who  climbed  with  his  goats  up  the 

steep  ; 
The  beggar  who  wandered  in  search  of  his  bread, 
Have  faded  away  like  the  grass  that  we  tread. 


The  saint  who  enjoyed  the  communion  of  heaven  ; 
The  sinner  who  dared  to  remain  unforgiven  ; 
The  wise  and  the  foolish,  the  guilty  and  just, 
Have  quietly  mingled  their  bones  in  the  dust. 

So  the  multitude  goes,  like  the  flowers  or  the  weed 
That  withers  away  to  let  others  succeed  ; 
So  the  multitude  comes,  even  those  we  behold. 
To  repeat  every  tale  that  has  often  been  told. 

For  we  are  the  same  our  fathers  have  been  ; 
We  see  the  same  sights  our  fathers  have  seen  ; 
We  drink  the  same  stream,  and  view  the  same  sun, 
And  run  the  same  course  our  fathers  have  run. 

The  thoughts  we  are  thinking  our  fathers  would  think; 
From  the  death  we  are  shrinking  our  fathers  would 

shrink ; 
To  the  life  we  are  clinging  they  also  would  cling ; 
But  it  speeds  for  us  all,  like  a  bird  on  the  wing. 

They  loved,  but  the  story  we  cannot  unfold  ; 
They  scorned,  but  the  heart  of  the  haughty  is  cold  ; 
They  grieved,  but  no  wail  from  their  slumbers  will 

come; 
They  joyed,  but  the  tongue  of  their  gladness  is  dumb. 

They  died  !  aye !  they  died  ;  and  we  things  that  are 

now, 
Who  walk  on  the  turf  that  lies  over  their  brow. 
Who  make  in  their  dwelling  a  transient  abode. 
Meet  the  things  that  they  met  on  their  pilgrimage 

road. 

Yea  !  hope  and  despondency,  pleasure  and  pain. 
We  mingle  together  in  sunshine  and  rain ; 
And  the  smiles  and  the  tears,  the  song  and  the  dirge, 
Still  follow  each  other,  like  surge  upon  surge. 

'Tis  the  wink  of  an  eye,  'tis  the  draught  of  a  breath. 
From  the  blossom  of  health  to  the  paleness  of  death, 
From  the  gilded  saloon  to  the  bier  and  the  shroud,— 
Oh  !  why  should  the  spirit  of  mortal  be  proud  ? 

William  Knox. 


MEMORY. 

The  following  poem  was  written  by  the  late  President  Garfield 
during  his  senior  year  in  Williams  College,  Mass.,  and  was  pub- 
lished in  the  Williams  Quarterly  for  March,  18^6. 

IS  beauteous  night;  the  stars  look  brightly  down 
Upon  the  earth,  decked  in  her  robe  of  snow. 
No  light  gleams  at  the  windows,  save  my  own. 
Which  gives  its  cheer  to  midnight  and  to  me. 
And  now  with  noiseless  step,  sweet  memory  comes 
And  leads  me  gently  through  her  twilight  realms. 
What  poet's  tuneful  lyre  has  ever  sung. 
Or  delicatest  pencil  e'er  portrayed 
The  enchanted,  shadowy  land  where  memory  dwells? 
It  has  its  valleys,  cheerless,  lone,  and  drear. 
Dark-shaded  by  the  mournful  cypress  tree  ; 
And  yet  its  sunlit  mountain  tops  are  bathed 
In  heaven's  own  blue.     Upon  its  craggy  clifls, 


SENTIME-VT  AND    RKFLECTION. 


2-,0 


Robed  in  the  dreamy  light  of  distant  years, 

Are  clustered  joys  serene  of  other  days. 

Upon  its  gently  sloping  liillsides  bend 

Tiie  weeping  willows  o'er  the  sacred  dust 

Of  dear  departed  ones  ;  yet  in  that  land, 

Where'er  our  footsteps  fall  upon  the  shore. 

They  that  were  sleeping  rise  from  out  the  dust 

Of  death's  long,  silent  years,  and  round  us  stand 

As  erst  they  did  before  the  prison  tomb 

Received  their  clay  within  its  voiceless  halls. 

The  heavens  that  bend  above  that  land  are  hung 

VVith  clouds  of  various  hues.     Some  dark  and  chili. 

Surcharged  with  sorrow,  cast  their  sombre  shade 

Upon  the  sunny,  joyous  land  below. 

Others  are  floating  through  the  dreamy  air. 

White  as  the  falling  snow,  their  margins  tinged 

With  gold  and  crimson  hues  ;  their  shadows  fa!! 

Upon  the  flowery  meads  and  sunny  slopes, 

Soft  as  the  shadow  of  an  angel's  wing. 

W^hen  the  rough  battle  of  the  day  is  done, 

And  evening's  peace  falls  gently  on  tlie  heart, 

I  bound  away,  across  the  noisy  years. 

Unto  t!ic  utmost  verge  of  memory's  land. 

Where  earth  and  sky  in  dreamy  distance  meet, 

And  memory  dim  with  dari<  oblivion  joins  ; 

Where  woke  the  first  remembered  sounds  that  fell 

Upon  the  ear  in  childhood's  early  m.orn  ; 

And,  wandering  thence  along  the  rolling  years, 

I  see  the  sh.-dow  of  my  former  self 

Gliding  from  chi!d!iood  up  to  man's  estate  ; 

Tiie  path  of  youth  winds  down  thorough  many  a  vale, 

And  on  the  brink  of  many  a  dread  abyss. 

From  out  whose  darkness  comes  no  ray  of  light. 

Save  that  a  phantom  dances  o'er  the  gulf 

And  beckons  toward  the  verge.     Again  the  path 

Leads  o'er  the  summit  where  the  sunbeams  fall ; 

And  thus  in  light  and  shade,  sunshine  and  gloom. 

Sorrow  and  joy  this  life-path  leads  along. 

•James  Abkam  GARFinLD. 


THE  WEIGHT  OF  A  WORD. 

'AVE  you  ever  thought  of  the  weight  of  a  word 
That  falls  in  the  heart  like  the  song  of  a  bird. 
That  gladdens  the  springtime  of  memory  and 
youth, 

And  garlands  wiUi  cedar  t'le  banner  of  truth. 
That  moistens  the  harvesting  spot  cf  t!ie  brain. 
Like  dewdrops  that  fall  on  a  meadow  (,f  grain. 
Or  that  shrivels  the  germ  and  destroys  the  fruit 
And  lies  lilce  a  worm  at  the  lifeless  root? 

I  saw  a  farmer  at  break  of  day 
Hoeing  his  corn  in  a  careful  way  ; 
An  enemy  came  with  a  drouth  in  his  eye, 
Discouraged  the  worker  and  hurried  by.  \ 

The  keen-edged  blade  of  the  faithful  hoe 
Dulled  on  the  earth  in  the  long-corn  row ; 
The  weeds  sprung  up  and  their  feathers  tossed 
Over  the  f.eld,  and  the  crop  was — lost. 


A  sailor  launched  on  an  angry  bi.y 

When  the  heavens  entombed  the  face  of  the  dny  ; 

The  wind  arose,  like  a  beast  in  pain, 

And  shook  on  the  billows  his  yellow  mane  ;         ■  • 

The  storm  beat  down  as  if  cursed  the  cloud, 

And  the  waves  held  up  a  dripping  shroud-.— 

But,  hark  !  o'er  the  waters  that  wildly  raved 

Came  a  word  of  cheer,  and  he  was — saved. 

A  poet  passed  with  a  song  of  God 

Hid  in  his  heart,  like  a  gem  in  a  clod. 

His  lips  were  framed  to  pronounce  the  thought. 

And  the  music  of  rhyt'im  its  magic  wrouglit ;  ' 

Feeble  at  first  was  the  happy  trill, 

Low  was  the  echo  that  answered  the  hill. 

But  a  jealous  friend  spoke  near  his  side. 

And  on  his  lips  the  sweet  song — died. 

A  woman  paused  where  a  chandelier 

Threw  in  the  darkness  its  poisoned  spear; 

Weary  and  footsore  from  journeying  long. 

She  had  straj'ed  unawares  from  the  right  to  the  wrong. 

Angels  were  beck'ning  her  back  from  the  den, 

Hell  and  its  demons  were  beck'ning  her  in ; 

The  tone  of  an  urchin,  like  one  who  forgives, 

Drew  her  back,  and  in  heaven  that  sweet  word — lives. 

Words  I  words  !  They  are  little,  yet  mighty  and  brave  ; 
They  rescue  a  nation,  an  empire  save — 
They  close  up  the  gaps  in  a  fresh  bleeding  heart 
That  sickness  and  sorrow  have  severed  apart. 
^  rhey  fall  on  the  path,  like  a  ray  cf  the  sun, 
Where  the  shadows  of  death  lay  so  heavy  upon  ; 
They  lighten  the  earth  over  our  blessed  dehd. 
A  word  that  will  comfort,  oh  !  leave  not  unsaid. 

ORIENTAL  MYSTICISM. 

The  following  passage  is  translated  from  a  German  version  of 
the  Dschau  har  Odsat,  a  Persian  poem  of  the  tiiirtecntli  century, 
and  is  here  ofTercd  as  a  specimen  of  the  mystic  writings  of  the 
East— a  single  sprig  brought  to  town  from  a  distant  and  unfre- 
quented gard,  n.  These  writings  arc  cliaracterizcd  by  wildncss  of 
fancy,  a  philosophy  extremely  abstruse,  and  especially  by  a  deep 
spiritual  life.  They  prove,  as  w  ill  be  seen  in  the  lines  which  fol- 
low, that  tile  huHian  mind  has  strong  religious  instincts;  which, 
liowevcr,  unless  guided  by  a  higher  wisdom,  are  Jiable  to  great 
perveisioii  — Extiavagant  as  the  conception  of  the  passage  here 
selected  must  appear  to  us,  it  has  still  i;s  foundation  in  truth. 
That  the  ideas  of  infinite  and  divine  things,  which  slumber  in  the 
mind,  a''e  often  violently  awakend  l.y  external  objects,  is  what 
every  one  has  experienced.  Says  a  modern  poet,  in  prospect  of 
"  clear,  placid  Leman," 

"  It  is  a  thing 
Which  warns  me,  by  its  stillness,  to  forsake 
n.irth's  troubled  wafers  lor  a  purer  spring." 

And  what  is  the  story  of  Rudbari  and  Hassan,  but  an  cxhibiJoii, 
a  /a  mode  orierUale,  of  the  same  trulh? 

«^|»  N  ancient  days  as  the  old  stories  run, 
.,4.     Strange  hap  befell  a  father  and  hus  son. 
\^     Rudbari- was  an  old  sea  faring  man 
I       And  loved  the  rough  paths  of  the  ocean  ; 
And  Hassan  was  his  child — a  boy  as  bright 
As  the  keen  moon,  gleaming  in  the  vault  of  night. 


260 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


Rose-red  his  cheek,  Narcissus-like  his  eye, 

And  his  form  might  well  with  the  slender  cypress 

vie. 
Godly  Rudbari  was,  and  just  and  true, 
And  Hassan  pure  as  a  drop  of  early  dew. — 
Now,  because  Rudbari  loved  this  only  child, 
He  was  feign  to  take  him  o'er  the  waters  wild. 

The  ship  is  on  the  strand — friends,  brothers,  parents, 
there 
Take  the  last  leave  with  mingled  tears  and  prayer. 
The  sailor  calls,  the  fair  breeze  chides  delay, 
The  sails  are  spread,  and  all  are  under  way. 
But  when  the  ship,  like  a  strong-shot  arrow,  flew. 
And    the  well-known    shore  was   fading   from    the 

view, 
Hassan  spake,  as  he  gazed  upon  the  land, 
Such  mystic  words  as  none  could  understand : — 
"On  this  troubled  wave  in  vain  we  seek  for  rest. 
Who  builds  his  house  on  the  sea,  or  his  palace  on  its 

breast  ? 
Let  me  but  reach  yon  fixed  and  steadfast  shore, 
And  the  bounding  wave  shall  never  tempt  me  more." 
Then  Rudbari  spake  : — "And  does  my  brave  boy 

fear 
The  ocean's  face  to  see,  and  his  thundering  voice  to 

hear? 
He  will  love,  when  home  returned  at  last, 
To  tell,  in  his  native  cot,  of  dangers  past." 
Then  Hassan  said  :     "Think  not  thy  brave  boy  fears 
When  he  sees  the  ocean's  face,  or  his  voice  of  thunder 

hears ; 
But  on  these  waters  I  may  not  abide  ; 
Hold  me  not  back  ;  I  will  not  be  denied." 
Rudbari  now  wept  o'er  his  wildered  child  : 
"What  mean  these  looks,  and  words  so  strangely 

wild? 
Dearer,  my  boy,  to  me  than  all  the  gain 
That  I've  earned  from  the  bounteous  bosom  of  the 

main  ! 
Nor  heaven,  nor  earth,  could  yield  one  joy  to  me. 
Could  I  not,  Hassan,  share  that  joy  with  thee." 

But  Hassan  soon,  in  his  wandering  words,  betrayed 
The  cause  of  the  mystic  air  that  round  him  played  : 
"Soon  as  I  saw  these  deep,  wide  waters  roll, 
A  light  from  the  Infinite  broke  in  upon  my  soul ! " 
"Thy  words,  my  child,  but  ill  become  thine  age. 
And  would  better  suit  the  mouth  of  some  star-gazing 

sage." 
''Thy  words,  my  father,  cannot  turn  away 
Mine  eye,  now  fixed  on  that  supernal  day." 
"Dost  thou  not,  Hassan,  lay  these  dreams  aside, 
I'll  plunge  thee  headlong  in  this  whelming  tide." 
"Do  this,  Rudbari,  only  not  in  ire, 
'Tis  all  I  ask,  and  all  I  can  desire. 
For  on  the  bosom  of  this  rolling  flood, 
Slumbers  an  awful  mystery  of  good  ; 
And  he  may  solve  it,  w!io  will  self  expunge. 
And  in  the  depths  of  boundless  being  plunge." 


He  spake,  and  plunged,  and  as  quickly  sunk  beneath 
As  the  flying  snow-flake  melts  on  a  summer  heath. 
A  moment  Rudbari  stood,  as  fixedly  bound 
As  the  pearl  is  by  the  shell  that  clasps  it  round. 
Then  he  followed  his  Hassan  with  a  frantic  leap, 
And  they  slumber  both  on  the  bottom  of  the  deep ! 

Leonard  Woods. 


THE  SEASONS  OF  LIFE. 

SPRING. 

'HE  soft  green  grass  is  growing. 

O'er  meadow  and  o'er  dale  ; 
The  silvery  founts  are  flowing 

Upon  the  verdant  vale  ; 
The  pale  snowdrop  is  springing, 

To  greet  the  glowing  sun ; 
The  primrose  sweet  is  flinging 

Perfume  the  fields  among ; 
The  trees  are  in  the  blossom. 

The  birds  are  in  their  song. 
As  spnng  upon  the  bosom 

Of  nature's  borne  along. 

So  the  dawn  of  human  life  doth  green  and  verd>  /tt 
spring ; 

It  doth  little  ween  the  strife  that  after  years  will  bring  ; 

Like  the  snowdrop  it  is  fair,  and  like  the  primrose 
sweet ; 

But  its  innocence  can't  scare  the  blight  from  its  re- 
treat. 

SUMMER. 

The  full  ripe  corn  is  bending 

In  waves  of  golden  light ; 
The  new-mown  hay  is  sending 

Its  sweets  upon  the  night ; 
The  breeze  is  softly  sighing. 

To  cool  the  parched  flowers  ; 
The  rain,  to  see  them  dying. 

Weeps  forth  its  gentle  showers  ; 
The  merry  fish  are  playing, 

Adown  yon  crystal  stream  ; 
And  night  from  day  is  straying. 

As  twilight  gives  its  gleam. 

And  thus  manhood,  in  its  prime,  is  full  and  ripe  and 

strong ; 
And  it  scarcely  deems  that  time  can  do  its  beauty 

wrong. 
Like  the  merry  fish  we  play  adown  the  stream  of  life  ; 
And  we  wreck  not  of  the  day  that  gathers  what  is  rife. 


The  flowers  all  are  fading, 
Their  sweets  are  rifled  now  ; 

And  night  sends  forth  her  shading 
Along  the  mountain  brow  ; 

The  bee  hath  ceased  its  winging, 
To  flowers  at  early  morn ; 


SENTIMENT  AND    REFLECTION. 


261 


The  birds  have  ceased  their  singing, 

Sheafed  is  the  golden  corn  ; 
The  harvest  now  is  gathered, 

Protected  from  the  clime  ; 
The  leaves  are  seared  and  withered, 

That  late  shone  in  their  prime. 

Thus  when  fourscore  j'ears  are  gone  o'er  the  frail  life 

of  man, 
Time  sits  heavy  on  his  throne,  as  near  his  brow  we 

scan ; 
Like  the  autumn  leaf  that  falls,  when  winds  the  branches 

wave, 
Like  night-shadows  daylight  palls,  like  all,  he  finds  a 

grave. 

WINTER. 

The  snow  is  on  the  mountain, 

The  frost  is  on  the  vale, 
The  ice  hangs  o'er  the  fountain, 

The  storm  rides  on  the  gale  ; 
The  earth  is  bare  and  naked. 

The  air  is  cold — and  drear. 
The  sky  with  snow-clouds  flakfid, 

And  dense  foul  fogs  appear ; 
The  sun  shines  not  so  brightly 

Through  the  dark  murky  skies, 
The  nights  grow  longer — nightly. 

And  thus  the  winter  dies. 

Thus  falls  man,  his  season  past,  the  blight  has  ta'en 

his  bloom  ; 
Summer  gone,  the  autumn  blast  consigns  him  to  the 

tomb ; 
Then  the  winter     cold  and   drear,    with    pestilential 

breath. 
Blows  upon  nis  silent  bier,   and  whispers — "  This  is 

death." 

Thomas  John  Ouseley. 


THE  VILLAGE  SCHOOL-MASTER. 

^ESIDE  yon  straggling  fence  that  skirts  the  way 
With  blossom  furze  unprofitably  gay, 
There,  in  his  noisy  mansion,  skilled  to  rule. 
The  village  master  taught  his  little  school : 
A  man  severe  he  was,  and  stern  to  view  : 
I  knew  him  well,  and  every  truant  knew ; 
Well  had  the  boding  tremblers  learned  to  trace 
The  day's  disasters  in  lis  morning  face  ; 
Full  well  they  laughed  with  counterfeited  glee 
At  all  his  jokes,  for  many  a  joke  had  he ; 
Full  well  the  busy  whisper,  circling  round. 
Conveyed  the  dismal  tidings  when  he  frowned. 

Yet  he  was  kind,  or,  if  severe  in  aught. 
The  love  he  bore  to  learning  was  in  fault ; 
The  village  all  declared  how  much  he  knew — 
'Twas  certain  he  could  write,  and  cipher  too  ; 
Lands  he  could  measure,  terms  and  tides  presage, 
And  e'en  the  story  ran  that  he  could  gauge. 


In  arguing,  too,  the  parson  owned  his  skill. 

For  e'en  though  vanquished,  he  could  argue  still ; 

While  words  of  learned  length  and  thundering  sound 

Amazed  the  gazing  rustics  ranged  around  ; 

And  still  they  gazed,  and  still  the  wonder  grew, 

That  one  small  head  could  carry  all  he  knew. 

But  past  is  all  his  fame.    The  very  spot 

Where  many  a  time  he  triumphed  is  forgot. 

Oliver  Goldsmith. 


THE   INQUIRY. 

ELL  me,  ye  winged  winds,  that  round  my  path- 
way roar, 
Do  ye  not  know  some  spot  where  mortals 
"^  weep  no  more  ? 

Some  lone  and  pleasant  dell,  some  valley  in  the  West, 
Where,  free  from  toil  and  pain,  the  weary  soul  may 
rest? 
The  loud  wind  dwindled  to  a  whisper  low, 
And  sighed  for  pity  as  it  answered — "  No." 

Tell  me,  thou  mighty  deep,  whose  billows  round  me 

play, 
Knowest  thou   some  favored  spot,  some  island  far 

away. 
Where  weary  man  may  find  the  bliss  for  which  he 

sighs — 
Where  sorrow  never  lives,  and  friendship  never  dies  ? 
The  loud  waves,  rolling  in  perpetual  flow, 
Stopped    for  awhile,   and  sighed  to  answer — 
"No." 

And  thou,  serenest  moon,  that,  with  such  lovely  face. 
Dost  look  upon  the  earth,  asleep  in  night's  embrace  ; 
Tell  me,  in  all  thy  round,  hast  thou  not  seen  some  spot 
Where  miserable  man  might  find  a  happier  lot? 

Behind  a  cloud  the  moon  withdrew  in  woe. 
And  a  voice,  sweet,  but  sad,  responded — "No." 

Tell  me,  my  secret  soul ; — oh  !  tell  me,  hope  and  faith, 
Is  there    no    resting    place  from    sorrow,  sin,  and 

death  ?— 
Is  there  no  happy  spot,  where  mortals  may  be  blessed. 
Where  grief  may  find  a  balm,  and  wearmess  a  rest  ? 
Faith,   hope  and  love,  best  boons  to  mortals 

given, 
Waved  their  bright  wings,  and  whispered — 
"Yes,  in  heaven  !" 

Charles  Mackay. 


FROM  CHILDHOOD  TO  OLD  AGE. 

,EHOLD,  fond  man! 

See  here  thy  pictured  life; — pass  some  ftw 

years. 
Thy  flowering  spring,  thy  summer's  ardent 
strength. 
Thy  sober  autumn  fading  into  age, 
And  pale  concluding  wint°  •  comes  at  last, 
And  shuts  the  scene. 


2G2 


CROWN   JEWELS. 


OBSERVATIONS  OF  REV.  GABE  TUCKER. 

OU  may  notch  it  on  de  palin's  as  a  mightj- 
resky  plan 

To  make  your  judgment  by  de  clo'es  da* 
kivers  up  a  man  ; 
For  I  hardly  needs  to  tell  you  how  you  often  come 

ercross 
A  fifty-dollar  saddle  on  a  twenty-dollar  hoss. 
An',  wukin'  in  de  low-groun's,  you  diskiver.as  you  go. 
Datthe  fines'  shuck  may  hide  de  meanes'  nubbin  in 
a  row ! 

I  think  a  man  lias  got  a  mighty  slender  chance  for 

heben 
Dat  holds  on  to  his  piety  but  one  day  out  o'  seben  ; 
Dat  talks  about  de  sinners  wid  a  heap  o'  solemn  chal, 
An'  nebber  draps  a  nickel  in  de  missionary  hat ; 
Dafs  foremost  in  the  meetin'-house  for  raisin  all  de 

chunes, 
But  lays  aside  his  'ligion  wid  his  Sunday  pantaloons  ! 

I  nebber  judge  o'  people  datT  meets  along  the  way 
By  de  places  whar  dey  come  fum  an'  de  houses  whar 

dey  stay ; 
For  de  bantam  chicken's  awful  fond  o'  roostin  pretty 

high, 
An'  de  turkey-buzzard  sails  above  de  eagle  in  de  sky; 
Dey  ketches  little  minners  in  de  middle  ob  de  sea, 
An'  you  finds  da  smalles'  'possum  up  de  bigges'  kind 

o'tree ! 

J.  A.  Macon. 


THE  LAST   LEAF. 

SAW  him  once  before, 

As  he  passed  by  the  door ; 

And  again 
The  pavement  stones  resound 
As  he  totters  o'er  the  ground 
With  his  cane. 

But  now  he  walks  the  streets, 
And  he  looks  at  all  he  meets 

So  forlorn ; 
And  he  shakes  his  feeble  head, 
That  it  seems  as  if  he  said, 
"  They  are  gone." 

The  mossy  marbles  rest 

On  the  lips  that  he  has  pressed 

In  their  bloom ; 
And  the  names  he  loved  to  hear 
Have  been  carved  for  many  a  year 

On  the  tomb. 

My  grandmamma  has  said — 
Poor  old  lady  !  she  is  dead 

Long  ago—  ; 

That  he  had  a  Roman  nose, 
And  his  cheek  was  like  a  rose 

In  the  snow. 


T!i.;y  say  that  in  his  prime, 
Ere  the  pruning-knife  of  tinis 

Cut  him  down. 
Not  a  better  man  was  found 
By  the  crier  on  his  round 

Through  the  town. 

But  now  his  nose  is  thin. 
And  it  rests  upon  his  chin, 

Like  a  staff; 
And  a  crook  is  in  his  back. 
And  a  melancholy  crack 

In  his  laugh. 

1  know  it  is  a  sin 
For  me  to  sit  and  grin 

At  him  here, 
But  the  old  three-cornered  hat. 
And  the  breeches— »and  all  that, 

Are  so  queer  1 

And  if  I  should  live  to  be 
The  last  leaf  upon  the  tree 

In  the  spring, 
Let  them  smile,  as  I  do  now. 
At  the  old  forsaken  bough 

Where  I  cling. 

Oliver  WENnia.i-  Hoi.mks. 


THE  PAUPER'S  DEATH-BED. 

'READ  softly,  bow  the  head, 
In  reverent  silence  bow  ; 
No  passing  bell  doth  toll, 
"f*        Yet  an  immortal  soul 
Is  passing  now. 

.Stranger !  however  great, 

With  lowly  reverence  bow  ; 
There's  one  in  that  poor  shed — 
One  by  that  paltry  bed — 
Greater  than  thou. 

Beneath  that  beggar's  roof, 
Lo  !  Death  doth  keep  his  state, 

Enter,  no  crowds  attend  ; 

Enter,  no  guards  defend 
This  palace  gate. 

Tliat  pavement,  damp  and  cold. 

No  smiling  courtiers  tread  ; 
One  silent  woman  stands, 
Lifting  with  meagre  hands 
A  dying  head. 

No  mingling  voices  sound. 
An  infant  wail  alone  ; 
A  sob  suppressed — again 
That  sliort  deep  gasp,  and  then 
The  parting  groan. 


SENTIMENT  AND    REFLECTION. 


233 


O  change  !  O  wondrous  cjiange  ! 

Burst  are  the  prison  bars — 
This  moment,  there,  so  low, 
So  agonized,  and  now — 

Beyond  the  stars. 

O  change !  stupendous  change ! 

There  lies  tlie  soulless  clod  ; 
The,sun  eternal  breaks. 
The  new  immortal  wakes — 

Wakes  with  his  God ! 

Caroline  Anne  Southey. 


IF  I  SHOULD  DIE  TO-NIGHT. 

'  F  I  should  die  to-night. 

My  friends  would  look  upon  my  quiet  face, 
Before  they  laid  it  in  its  resting-place, 
And  deem  that  death  had  left  it  almost  fair  ; 
And  laying  snow-white  flowers  against  my  hair. 
Would  smooth  it  down  with  tearful  tenderness, 
And  fold  my  hands,  with  lingering  caress, 
Poor  hands,  so  empty  and  so  cold  to-night ! 

If  I  should  die  to-night, 
My  friends  would  call  to  mind,  with  loving  thought. 
Some  kindly  deed  the  icy  hand  had  wrought, 
Some  gentle  word  the  frozen  lips  had  said  : 
Errands  on  which  the  willing  feet  had  sped — 
The  memory  of  my  selfishness  and  pride. 
My  hasty  words,  would  all  be  put  aside, 
And  so  I  should  be  mourned  to-night. 

If  I  should  die  to-night, 
Even  hearts  estranged  would  turn  once  more  to  me. 
Recalling  other  days  remorsefully; 
The  eyes  that  chill  me  wiih  averted  glance. 
Would  look  upon  me  as  of  yore,  perchance, 
And  soften  in  the  old  familiar  way, 
For  who  would  war  with  dumb,  unconscious  clay.? 
So  I  might  rest,  forgiven  of  all  to-night. 

O  friends,  I  pray  to-night, 
Keep  not  your  kisses  for  my  dead,  cold  brow. 
The  way  is  lonely  ;  let  me  feel  them  now. 
Think  gently  of  me ;  I  am  travel  worn  ; 
My  faltering  feet  are  pierced  with  many  a  thorn. 
Forgive  !  O  hearts  estranged,  forgive,  I  plead ! 
When  dreamless  rest  is  mine,  I  shall  not  need 
The  tenderness  for  which  I  long  to-night. 


BETTER  THINGS. 

jETTER  to  smell  the  violet  cool,  than  sip  the 
glowing  wine  ; 
Better  to  hark  a  hidden  brook,  than  watch  a 
diamond  shine. 

Better  the  love  of  a  gentle  heart,  than  beauty's  favor 

proud ; 
Better  the  rose's  living  seed,  than  roses  in  a  crowd. 


Better  to  love  in  loneliness,  than  to  bask  in  love  all 

day  ; 
Better  the  fountain  in  the  heart,  than  the  fountain  by 

the  way. 

Better  be  fed  by  a  mother's  hand,  than  eat  alone  at 

will ; 
Better  to  trust  in  God,  than  say :     "  My  goods  my 

storehouse  fill." 

Better  to  be  a  little  wise,  than  in  knowledge  to  abound; 
Better  to  teach  a  child,    than  toil  to  fill  perfection's 
round. 

Better  to  sit  at  a  master's  feet,  than  thrill  a  listening 

State ; 
Better  suspect  that  thou  art  proud,  than  be  sura  that 

thou  art  great. 

Better  to  walk  the  real  unseen,  than  watch  the  hour's 

event ; 
Better  the  "Well  done,"  at  the  last,  than  the  air  with 

shouting  rent. 

Better  to  have  a  quiet  gri  jf,  than  a  hurrying  delight ; 
Better  the  twiliglit  of   the  dawn,   than  the  noonday 
burning  bright. 

Better  a  death  when  work  is  done,  than  earth's  most 

favored  birth ; 
Better  a  child  in  God's  great  house,  than  the  king  of 

all  the  earth. 

George  McDonald. 


WOMAN'S  WILL 

EN,  dying,  make  their  wiils,  but  wives 
Escape  a  work  so  sad  ; 
Why  should  they  make  what  all  their  lives 
The  gentle  dames  have  had  ? 

John  Godfrey  Saxe. 

AN  ANGEL  IN  THE  HOUSE. 


'OW  sweet  it  were,  if  without  feeble  fright, 
Or  dying  of  the  dreadful  beauteous  sight, 
An  angel  came  to  us,  and  we  could  bear 
To  see  him  issue  from  the  silent  air 
At  evening  in  our  room,  and  bend  on  ours 
His  divine  eyes,  and  bring  us  from  his  bowers 
News  of  dear  friends,  and  children  who  have  never 
Been  dead  indeed — as  we  shall  know  forever. 
Alas  I  we  think  not  what  we  daily  see 
About  our  hearths — angels,  that  are  to  be. 
Or  may  be  if  they  will,  and  we  prepare 
Their  souls  and  ours  to  meet  in  happy  air — 
A  child,  a  friend,  a  wife  whose  soft  heart  sings 
In  unison  with  ours,  breeding  its  future  wings. 

Leigh  Hunt 


264 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


WOODMAN,  SPARE  THAT  TREE. 

OODMAN,  spare  that  tree  ! 

Touch  not  a  single  bough  ! 
In  youth  it  sheltered  me, 

And  I'll  protect  it  now. 
'Twas  my  forefather's  hand 

That  placed  it  near  his  cot ; 
There,  woodman,  let  it  stand, 

Thy  ax  shall  harm  it  not ! 

That  old  familiar  tree. 

Whose  glory  and  renown  , 

Are  spread  o'er  land  and  sea, 

And  wouldst  thou  hew  it  down? 
Woodman,  forbear  thy  stroke ! 

Cut  not  its  earth-bound  ties  ; 
O,  spare  that  aged  oak, 

Now  towering  to  the  skies !. 

When  but  an  idle  boy 

I  sought  its  grateful  shade  ; 
In  all  their  gushing  joy 

Here  too  my  sisters  played. 
My  mother  kissed  me  here  ; 

My  father  pressed  my  hand — 
Forgive  this  foolish  tear. 

But  let  that  old  oak  stand  ! 

My  heart-strings  round  thee  cling, 

Close  as  thy  bark,  old  friend  ! 
Here  shall  the  wild-bird  sing. 

And  still  thy  branches  bend. 
Old  tree  1  the  storm  still  brave ! 

And,  woodman,  leave  the  spot ; 
While  I've  a  hand  to  save, 

Thy  ax  shall  hurt  it  not. 

George  Perkins  Morris. 

THE  LONG  AGO. 

H  !  a  wonderful  stream  is  the  river  of  Time, 
As  it  runs  through  the  realm  of  tears, 
With  a  faultless  rhythm  and  a  musical  rhyme, 
And  a  broader  sweep  and  a  surge  sublime, 
As  it  blends  in  the  ocean  of  years  ! 


How  the  winters  are  drifting  like  flakes  of  snow. 

And  the  summers  like  birds  between, 
And  the  years  in  the  sheaf,  how  they  come  and  they  j^o 
On  the  river's  breast,  with  its  ebb  and  its  flow, 

As  it  glides  in  the  shadow  and  sheen  ! 

There's  a  magical  isle  up  the  river  Time, 

Where  the  softest  of  airs  are  playing, 
There's  a  cloudless  sky  and  a  tropical  clime, 
And  a  song  as  sweet  as  a  vesper  chime, 

And  the  Junes  with  the  roses  are  straying. 


And  the  name  of  this  isle  is  the  "  Long  Ago," 

And  we  bury  our  treasures  there  ; 
There  are  brows  of  beauty  and  bosoms  of  snow, 
There  are  heaps  of  dust— oh  !  we  loved  them  so — 

There  are  trinkets  and  tresses  of  hair. 

There  are  fragments  of  songs  that  nobody  sings, 

There  are  parts  of  an  infant's  prayer, 
There's  a  lute  unswept  and  a  harp  without  strings, 
There  are  broken  vows  and  pieces  of  rings. 

And  the  garments  our  loved  used  to  wear. 

There  are  hands  that  are  waved  when  the  fairy  shore 

By  the  fitful  mirage  is  lifted  in  air. 
And  we  sometimes  hear  through  the  turbulent  roar 
Sweet  voices  we  heard  in  the  days  gone  before. 

When  the  wind  down  the  river  was  fair. 

Oh  !  remembered  for  aye  be  that  blessed  isle, 

All  the  day  of  our  life  until  night ; 
And  when  evening  glows  with  its  beautiful  smile. 
And  our  eyes  are  closing  in  slumbers  a  while. 

May  a  loveKer  isle  be  in  sight. 

Bayard  F.  Tavi^or. 


ROLL  CALL 

ORPORAL  GREEN  ! "  the  orderly  cried  ; 
"Here  !  "  was  the  answer,  loud  and  clear, 
From  the  lips  of  the  soldier  who  stood 
near — 
And  "  here  !  "  was  the  word  the  next  replied. 


u 


e 


"Cyrus  Drew  !  " — then  a  silence  fell — 
This  time  no  answer  followed  the  call ; 
Only  his  rear-man  had  seen  him  fall, 

Killed  or  wounded,  he  could  not  tell. 

There  they  stood  in  the  failing  light. 
These  men  of  battle,  with  grave,  dark  looks. 
As  plain  to  be  read  as  open  books, 

While  slowly  gathered  the  shades  of  night. 

The  fern  on  the  hill-sides  was  splashed  with  blood. 
And  down  in  the  corn  where  the  poppies  grew 
Were  redder  stains  than  the  poppies  knew  ; 

And  crimson-dyed  was  the  river's  flood. 

For  the  foe  had  crossed  from  the  other  side 
That  day,  in  the  face  of  a  murderous  fire 
That  swept  them  down  in  its  terrible  ire  ; 

And  their  life-blood  went  to  color  the  tide. 

"  Herbert  Kline  ! "     At  the  call  there  came 

Two  stalwart  soldiers  into  the  line. 

Bearing  between  them  this  Herbert  Kline, 
Wounded  and  bleeding,  to  answer  his  name, 

"  Ezra  Kerr ! " — and  a  voice  answered,  "  here  ! " 
"  Hiram  Kerr  ! " — but  no  man  replied. 
They  were  brothers,   these  two ;    the  sad  winds 
sighed, 

And  a  shudder  crept  through  the  cornfield  near. 


SENTIMENT  AND    REFLECTION. 


265 


"  Ephraim  Deane  !  ''—then  a  soldier  spoke  : 
"  Deane  carried  our  regiment's  colors,"  he  said  ; 
"  Where  our  ensign  was  shot,  I  left  him  dead. 

Just  after  the  enemy  wavered  and  broke. 

"  Close  to  the  road  side  his  body  lies; 

I  paused  a  moment  and  gave  him  drink  ; 

He  murmured  his  mother's  name,  I  think, 
And  death  came  with  it  and  closed  his  eyes." 

'Twas  a  victory;  yes,  but  it  cost  us  dear — 
For  that  company's  roll,  when  called  at  night, 
Of  a  hundred  men  who  went  into  the  fight, 

Numbered  but  twenty  that  answered,  "  here  I " 

N.  G.  Shepherd, 


THE  LARK  AND    HER    LITTLE    ONES  WITH 
.  THE  OWNER  OF  A  FIELD. 


ii 


&: 


EPEND  upon  yourself  alone," 

Is  a  sound  proverb  worthy  credit, 
n  ^sop's  time  it  was  well  known, 
And  there  (to  tell  the  truth)  I  read  it. 
The  larks  to  build  their  nests  began, 

When  wheat  was  in  the  green  blade  still — 
That  is  to  say,  when  Nature's  plan 

Had  ordered  Love,  with  conquering  will, 
To  rule  the  earth,  the  sea,  and  air. 

Tigers  in  woods,  sea  monsters  in  the  deep  ; 
Nor  yet  refuse  a  share 

To  larks  that  in  the  cornfields  keep. 
One  bird,  however,  of  these  last. 
Found  that  one-half  the  spring  was  past, 
Yet  l)rought  no  mate,  such  as  the  season  sent 
To  others.     Then  with  firm  intent 
Plighting  her  troth,  and  fairly  matched, 
She  built  her  nest  and  gravely  hatched. 
All  went  on  well,  the  com  waved  red 
Above  each  little  fledgling's  head. 
Before  they  'd  strength  enough  to  fly, 
And  mount  into  the  April  sky. 
A  hundred  cares  the  mother  lark  compel 

To  seek  with  patient  care  the  daily  food  ; 

But  first  she  warns  her  restless  brood 
To  watch,  and  peep,  an  J  listen  well, 
And  keep  a  constant  sentinel ; 
'And  if  the  owner  comes  iiis  corn  to  see. 
His  son,  too,  as  't  will  likely  be. 
Take  heed,  for  when  we're  sure  of  it. 
And  reapers  come,  why,  we  must  flit." 
No  sooner  was  the  lark  away 

Than  came  the  owner  with  his  son, 
"The  wheat  is  ripe,"  hesaid,  "so  run. 
And  bring  our  friends  at  peep  of  day. 
Each  with  his  sickle  sharp  and  ready." 
The  lark  returns  :  alarm  already 

Had  seized  the  covey.     One  commences — 
"  He  said  himself,  at  early  morn 
His  friends  he'd  call  to  reap  the  com." 


The  old  lark  said— "If  that  is  all. 

My  worthy  children,  keep  your  senses; 
No  hurry  till  the  first  rows  fall. 
We  '11  not  go  yet,  dismiss  all  fear ; 
To-morrow  keep  an  open  ear. 
Here's  dinner  ready,  now  be  gay." 
They  ate  and  slept  the  time  away. 
The  morn  arrives  to  wake  the  sleepers, 
Aurora  comes,  but  not  the  reapers. 
The  lark  soars  up  :  and  on  his  round 
The  farmer  comes  to  view  his  ground. 

"This  wheat,"  he  said,  ''ought  not  to  stand  ; 
Our  friends  are  wrong  no  helping  hand 
To  give,  and  we  are  wrong  to  tmst 
Such  lazy  fools  for  half  a  crust. 
Much  less  for  labor.     Sons,"  he  cried, 

"  Go,  call  our  kinsmen  on  each  side  ; 
We'll  go  to  work."    The  little  lark 
Grew  more  afraid.     "Now,  mother,  mark. 
The  work  within  an  hour's  begun," 
The  mother  answered — "  Sleep,  my  son  ; 
We  will  not  leave  our  house  to-night." 
Well,  no  one  came  ;  the  bird  was  right. 
The  third  time  came  the  master  by : 

"  Our  error's  great,"  he  said,  repentantly : 

"  No  friend  is  better  than  oneself; 
Remember  that,  my  boy,  it's  worth  some  pelf. 
Now,  what  to  do  ? 
Why,  I  and  you 
Must  whet  our  sickles  and  bfegin ; 
That  is  the  shortest  way,  I  see  ; 
I  know  at  last  the  surest  plan  : 
We'll  make  our  harvest  as  we  can." 
No  sooner  had  the  lark  o'erheard — 

"  'Tis  time  to  flit,  my  children,  come  !" 
Cried  out  the  very  prudent  bird. 
Little  and  big  went  fluttering,  rising, 
Soaring  in  a  way  surprising. 
And  left  without  a  beat  of  drum. 


THE  ORPHAN  BOY, 

'HE  room  is  old — the  night  is  cold — 
But  night  is  dearer  far  than  day  ; 
For  then,  in  dreams,  to  him  it  seems, 
That  she's  returned  who's  gone  away ! 
His  tears  are  passed — he  clasps  her  fast — 

Again  she  holds  him  on  her  knee  ; 
And — in  his  sleep — he  murmurs  deep, 
"Oh  !  mother,  go  no  more  from  me  !" 

But  morning  breaks,  the  child  awakes — 

The  dreamer's  happy  dream  hath  fled  ; 
The  fields  look  sere,  and  cold,  and  drear — 

Like  orphans,  mourning  summer  dead!  — 
The  wild  birds  spring,  on  shivering  wing. 

Or,  cheerless,  chirp  from  tree  to  tree  ; 
And  still  he  cries,  with  weeping  eyes, 

"Oh  !  mother  dear,  come  back  to  me  !" 


• 


2CG 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


Can  no  one  tell  where  angels  dwell  ? — 

He's  called  them  oft  till  day  grew  dim  ; 
If  they  were  near — and  they  could  hear — 

He  thinks  they'd  bring  her  back  to  him  ! 
"Oh  !  angels  sweet,  conduct  my  feet," 

He  cries,  "where'er  her  home  may  be  ; 
Oh  !  lead  me  on  to  where  she's  gone, 

Or  bring  my  mother  back  to  me  !" 

Charles  Swain. 

WILL    THE    NEW    YEAR    COME   TO-NIGHT. 
MAMMA? 

^ 

ILL  the  New  Year  come  to-night,  mamma? 

I'm  tired  of  waiting  so — 
My  stocking  hung  by  the  chimney-side  full 
three  long  days  ago  ; 
I  run  to  peep  within  the  door  by  morning's  early  light — 
'Tis  empty  still ;  oh,  say,  mamma,  will  the  New  Year 
come  to-night  ? 

Will  the  New  Year  come  to-night,  mamma  ?  the  snow 
is  on  the  hill. 

And  the  ice  must  be  two  inches  thick  upon  the  mead- 
ow's rill. 

I  heard  you  tell  papa  last  night  his  son  must  have  a  sled; 

(I  didn't  mean  to  hear,  mamma),  and  a  pair  of  skates, 
you  said. 

I  prayed  for  just  those  things,  mamma.     Oh,  I  shall  be 

full  of  glee, 
And  the  orphan  boys  in  the  village  school  will  all  be 

envying  me ; 
But  I'll  give  them  toys  and  lend  them  books,  and  make 

their  New  Year  glad. 
For  God,  you  say,  takes  back  his  gifts  when  little  folks 

are  bad ; 

And  won't  you  lef  me  go,  mamma,  upon  the  New 

Year's  day. 
And  carry  something  nice  and  warm  to  poor  old  widow 

Gray? 
I'll  leave  the  basket  near  the  door  within  the  garden 

gate- 
Will  the  New  Year  come  to-night,  mamma?  it  seems 

so  long  to  wait. 

The  New  Year  comes  to-night,  mamma,  I  saw  it  in  my 

sleep ; 
My  stocking  hung  so  full,  I  thought — mamma,  what 

makes  you  weep  ? — 
But  it  only  held  a  little  shroud — a  shroud  and  nothing 

more ; 
And  an  open  coffin  made  for  me  was  standing  on  the 

floor! 

It  seemed  so  very  strange  indeed,  to  find  such  gifts,  in- 
stead 

Of  all  the  gifts  I  wished  so  much — the  story-books  and 
sled; 


And  while  I  wondered  what  it  meant,  you  came  with 

tearful  joy. 
And  said,  "Thc.u'lt  findthe  New  Year  first ;  God  call- 

eth  thee,  my  boy." 

It  is  not  all  a  dream,  mamma — I  know  it  must  be  true  ; 
But  have  I  been  so  bad  a  boy,  God  taketh  me  from 

you? 
I  don't  know  what  papa  will  do  when  I  am  laid  to  rest, 
And  you  will  have  no  Willie's  head  to  fold  upon  your 

breast. 

The  New  Year  comes  to-night,  mamma ;  place  your 

dear  hand  on  my  cheek. 
And  raise  my  head  a  little  more  ;  it  seems  so  hard  to 

speak. 
I  shall  not  want  the  skates,  mamma,  I'll  never  need  the 

sled ; 
But  won't  you  give  them  both  to  Blake,  who  hurt  me 

on  my  head  ? 

He  used  to  hide  my  books  away  and  tear  the  pictures 

too. 
But  now  he'll  know  that  I  forgive,  as  then  I  tried  to  do. 
And  if  you  please,  mamma,  I'd  like  the  story-books  and 

slate 
To  go  to  Frank,  the  drunkard's  boy,  you  wouldn't  let 

me  hate ; 

And  dear  mamma,  you  won't  forget,  upon  the  New- 
Year's  day. 

The  basketful  of  something  nice  for  poor  old  widow 
Gray? 

The  New  Year  comes  to-night,  mamma — it  seems  so 
very  soon, 

I  think  God  didn't  hear  me  ask  for  just  another  June. 

I  know  I've  been  a  thoughtless  boy  and  made  you  too 

much  care. 
And  maybe  for  your  sake,  mamma,  God  doesn't  hear 

my  prayer. 
There's  one  thing  more — my  pretty  pets,  the  robin  and 

the  dove. 
Keep  for  you  and  dear  papa,  and  teach  them  how  to 

love. 

The  garden-rake,  the  little  hoe,  you'll  find  them  nicely 

laid 
Upon  the  garret  floor,  mamma,  the  place  where  last  I 

played. 
I  thought  to  need  them  both  so  much  when  summer 

comes  again, 
To  make  my  garden  by  the  brook  that  trickles  through 

the  glen ; 

It  cannot  be ;  but  you  will  keep  the  summer  flowers 

green. 
And  plant  a  few — don't  cry,  mamma — a  very  few  I 

mean. 
Where  I'm  asleep :   I'll  sleep  so  sweet  beneath  the 

apple  tree. 
Where  you  and  robin  in  the  morn  will  come  and  sing 

to  me. 


SENTIMENT  AND   REFLECTION. 


267 


The  New  Year  comes — good-night,  mamma,  "  I  lay 
me  down  to  sleep, 

I  pray  the  Lord" — tell  dear  papa — "my  precious  soul 
to  keep ; 

If  I " — how  cold  it  seems — how  dark — kiss  me — I  can- 
not see,  .    '. 

The  New  Year  comes  to-night,  mamma,  the  old  year 
dies  wiih  nie. 

Cora  M.  Eager. 


THE  LAST  TIME  THAT  I   MET  LADY  RUTH. 

'HERE  are  some  things  hard  to  understand, 
O  heip  me,  my  God,  to  trust  in  Thee  ! 
But  I  never  shall  forget  her  soft  white  hand, 
"f*  And  her  eyes  when  she  looked  at  me. 

It  is  hard  to  pray  the  very  same  prayer 
Which  once  at  our  mother's  knee  we  prayed — 

When  where  we  trusted  our  whole  heart,  there 
Our  trust  hath  been  betrayed. 

I  swear  that  the  milk-white  muslin  so  light 
On  her  virgin  breast,  where  it  lay  demure, 

Seemed  to  be  touched  to  a  purer  white 
By  the  touch  of  a  breast  so  pure. 

I  deemed  her  the  one  thing  undefiled 
By  the  air  we  breathe,  in  a  world  of  sin ; 

Tlie  truest,  the  tenderest,  purest  child 
A  man  ever  trusted  in ! 

When  she  blamed  me  (she,  with  her  fair  child's  face  !) 
That  never  wilh  her  to  the  church  I  went 

To  partake  o.Tthe  Gospel  of  truth  and  grace. 
And  the  Cliristian  sacrament, 

And  I  said  I  would  for  her  own  sweet  sake, 

Though  it  v.as  but  herself  I  should  worship  there, 

How  that  happy  child's  face  strove  to  take 
On  its  dimples  a  serious  air ! 

I  remember  the  chair  she  would  set  for  me. 
By  the  flowers,  when  all  the  house  was  gone 

To  drive  in  the  Park,  and  I  and  she 
Were  left  to  be  happy  alone. 

There  she  leaned  her  head  on  my  knees,  my  Ruth, 
With  the  primrose  loose  in  her  half-closed  hands ; 

And  I  to!d  her  tales  of  mytyjyandering  youth 
In  the  far  fair  foreign  lahj^B. 

The  last  time  I  met  her  was  here  in  town,     ' 

At  a  fancy  ball  at  the  Duchess  of  D., 
On  the  stairs,  where  her  husband  was  handing  her 
down. 

There  we  met,  and  she  talked  to  me. 

She  with  powder  in  hair  and  patch  on  chin, 

And  I  in  the  garb  of  a  pilgrim  priest. 
And  between  us  both,  without  and  within, 

A  hundred  years  at  least ! 


We  talked  of  the  house,  and  the  late  long  rains. 
And  the  crush  at  tlie  French  Ambassador's  ball. 

And  ....  well,  I  have  not  blown  out  my  brains. 
You  see  I  can  laugh,  that  is  all. 

Robert  Bulwer  Lvtton  {Owen  Meredith). 


ii 


R 


THE  SNOW-FUKE. 

OW,  if  I  fall,  will  it  be  my  lot 
To  be  cast  in  some  low  and  lonely  spot. 
To  melt,  and  to  sink  unseen  cr  forgot  ? 
And  then  will  my  course  be  ended  ? " 
'Twas  thus  a  feathery  snow-flake  said, 
As  down  through  the  measureless  space  it  strayed. 
Or,  as  half  by  dalliance,  half  afraid. 
It  seemed  in  mid  air  suspended. 

"  O,  no,"  said  the  earth,  "  thou  shalt  not  lie. 
Neglected  and  lone,  on  my  lap  to  die, 
Thou  pure  and  delicate  child  of  the  sky ; 

For  thou  wilt  be  safe  in  my  keeping ; 
But,  then,  I  must  give  thee  a  lovelier  fonn  ; 
Thou'lt  not  be  a  part  of  the  wintry  storm, 
But  revive  when  the  sunbeams  are  yellow  and  warm. 

And  tlie  flowers  from  my  bosom  are  peeping. 

"And  then  thou  shalt  have  thy  choice  to  be 
Restored  in  tlie  lily  tliat  decks  tlie  lea, 
In  the  jessamine  bloom,  the  anemone. 

Or  aught  of  thy  spotless  whiteness  ; 
To  melt,  and  be  cast  in  a  glittering  bead, 
With  the  pearls  that  the  night  scatters  over  the  mead. 
In  the  cup  where  the  bee  and  the  fire-fly  feed. 

Regaining  thy  dazzling  brightness  ; — 

"To  wake,  and  be  raised  from  thy  transient  sleep. 
When  Viola's  mild  blue  eye  shall  weep. 
In  a  tremulous  tear,  or  a  diamond  leap 

In  a  drop  from  the  unlocked  fountain  ; 
Or,  leaving  tlie  valley,  the  meadow  and  heath. 
The  streamlet,  the  flowers,  and  all  beneath, 
To  go  and  be  wove  in  the  silvery  wreath 

Encircling  the  brow  of  the  mountain. 

"  Or  wouldst  thou  return  to  a  home  in  the  skies. 
To  shine  in  the  iris  I'll  let  tliee  arise. 
And  appear  in  the  many  and  glorious  dyes 

A  pencil  of  sunbeams  is  blending. 
But  true,  fair  thing,  as  my  name  is  earth, 
I'll  give  thee  a  new  and  vernal  birth, 
When  thou  shalt  recover  thy  primal  worth. 

And  never  regret  descending  ! " 

"Then  I  will  drop,"  said  the  trusting  flake  ; 
"  But  bear  it  in  mind  that  the  choice  I  make 
Is  not  in  the  flowers  nor  the  dew  to  awake, 

Nor  the  mist  that  shall  pass  with  the  morning : 
For,  things  of  thyself,  they  expire  with  thee ; 
But  those  that  are  lent  from  on  high,  like  me. 
They  rise,  and  will  live,  from  thy  dust  set  free. 

To  the  regions  above  returning. 


268 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


"And  if  true  to  thy  word,  and  just  thou  art, 
Like  the  spirit  that  dwells  in  the  holiest  heart, 
Unsullied  by  thee,  thou  wilt  let  nie. depart, 

And  return  to  my  native  heaven  ; 
For  I  would  be  placed  in  the  beautiful  bow, 
From  time  to  time,  in  thy  sight  to  glow. 
So  thou  may'st  remember  the  flake  of  snow 

By  the  promise  that  God  hath  given." 

Hannah  Flagg  Gould. 


THE  MINSTREL  GIRL. 

'GAIN  'twas  evening — Agnes  knelt, 
Pale,  passionless — a  sainted  one : 
On  wasted  cheek  and  pale  brow  dwelt 
The  last  beams  of  the  setting  sun. 
Alone — the  damp  and  cloistered  wall 

Was  round  her  like  a  sepulchre ; 
And  at  the  vesper's  mournful  call 

Was  bending  every  worshipper. 
She  knelt — her  knee  upon  the  stone, 

Her  thin  hand  veiled  her  tearful  eye, 
As  it  were  sin  to  gaze  upon 

The  changes  of  the  changeful  sky. 
It  seemed  as  if  a  sudden  thought 

Of  her  enthusiast  moments  came 
With  the  bland  eve — and  she  had  sought 

To  stifle  in  her  heart  the  flame 
Of  its  awakened  memory  : 

She  felt  she  miglit  not  cherish,  then, 
The  raptures  of  a.  spirit,  free 

And  passionate  as  hers  had  been, 
When  its  sole  worship  was,  to  look 

With  a  delighted  eye  abroad ; 
And  read,  as  from  an  open  book, 

The  written  languages  of  God. 

How  changed  she  kneels ! — the  vile,  gray  hood, 

Where  spring-flowers  twined  with  raven  hair, 
And  where  the  jewelled  silk  hath  flowed, 

Coarse  veil  and  gloomy  scapulaire. 
And  wherefore  thus?    Was  hers  a  soul. 

Which,  all  unfit  for  nature's  gladness. 
Could  grasp  the  bigot's  poisoned  bowl. 

And  drain  with  joy  its  draught  of  madness? 
Read  ye  the  secret,  who  have  nursed 

In  your  own  hearts  intenser  feelings, 
Which  stole  upon  ye,  at  the  first. 

Like  bland  and  musical  revealings 
From  some  untrodden  paradise, 

Until  your  very  soul  was  theirs  ; 
And  from  their  maddening  ecstacies 

Ye  woke  to  mornfulncss  and  prayers. 
To  weave  a  garland,  will  not  let  it  wither  ; — 
Wondering,  I  listen  to  the  strain  sublime. 
That  flows,  all  freshly,  down  the  stream  of  time. 
Wafted  in  grand  simplicity  along, 
The  undying  breath,  the  very  soul  of  song. 

John  Green  leaf  Whittier, 


© 


A  SONG  OF  THE  MOLE. 

E  jay-bird  hunt  de  sparrer-nes', 
De  bee-martin  sail  all  'roun', 
De  squir'l,  he  holler  fum  de  top  er  de  tree — 
Mr.  Mole,  he  slay  in  de  groun'; 
He  hide  en  he  stay  twel  de  dark  drap  down — 
Mr.  Mole,  he  stay  in  de  groun'. 

De  w'ipperuill  holler  fum  'cross  de  fence — 

He  got  no  peace  er  niin'  ; 
Mr.  Mole,  he  grabble  en  he  dig  twel  he  Ian' 

Un'need  de  sweet  tater  vine  ; 
He  Ian'  down  dar  whar  no  sun  ain't  shine, 

Un'need  de  sweet-tater  vine. 

De  sparrer-hawk  whet  his  bill  on  de  rail — 

Oh,  ladies,  lissen  unter  me, 
Mr.  Mole,  he  handle  his  two  little  spade, 

Down  dar  whar  no  eye  kin  see  ; 
He  dig  so  fur  en  he  dig  so  free, 

Down  dar  whar  no  eye  kin  see. 

De  nigger,  he  wuk  twel  de  dark  drap  down, 

En  den  Mr.  Mole  is  he ; 
He  sing  his  song  de  whole  night  long 

Whar  de  patter-roller  never  kin  see  ; 
He  sing  en  he  play— oh,  gals,  go  'way  ! — 

Whar  de  patter-roller  never  kin  see. 

Joel  Chandler  Harris  {Uncle  Remus). 


GIVE  ME  THREE  GRAINS  OF  CORN,  MOTHER. 

THE  IRISH  FAMINE. 

,IVE  me  three  grains  of  corn,  motlier — 
Only  three  grains  of  corn  ; 
It  will  keep  the  little  life  I  have 
Till  the  coming  of  the  morn, 
am  dying  of  hnnger  and  cold,  mother — 
Dying  of  hunger  and  cold  ; 
uid  half  the  agony  of  such  a  death 
My  lips  have  never  told. 

It  has  gnawed  like  a  wolf  at  my  heart,  mother — 

A  wolf  that  is  fierce  for  blood  ; 
All  the  livelong  day,  and  the  night  beside. 

Gnawing  for  lack  of  food. 
I  dreamed  of  bread  in  my  sleep,  mother. 

And  the  sight  was  heaven  to  see  ; 
I  awoke  witli  an  eager,  famishing  lip. 

But  you  had  no  bread  for  me. 

How  could  I  look  to  you,  mother- 
How  could  I  look  to  you 

For  bread  to'  give  to  your  starving  boy. 
When  you  were  starving  too  ? 

For  I  read  the  famine  in  your  check. 
And  in  your  eyes  so  wild, 

And  I  felt  it  in  your  bony  hand 
As  you  laid  it  on  your  child. 


SENTIMENT   AND    REFLECTION. 


269 


The  Queen  has  lands  and  gold,  mother — 

The  Queen  has  lands  and  gold, 
While  you  are  forced  to  your  empty  breast 

A  skeleton  babe  to  hold — 
A  babe  that  is  dying  of  want,  mother. 

As  I  am  dying  now, 
With  a  ghastly  look  in  its  sunken  eye, 

And  famine  upon  its  brow. 

W'hat  has  poor  Ireland  done,  mother— 

Wiiat  has  poor  Ireland  done. 
That  the  world  looks  on  and  sees  us  starve. 

Perishing  one  by  one  ? 
Do  the  men  of  England  care  not,  mother — 

The  great  men  and  the  high — 
For  the  suffering  sons  of  Erin's  isle. 

Whether  they  live  or  die  ? 

There  is  many  a  brave  heart  here,  mother — 

Dying  of  want  and  cold, 
While  only  across  the  channel,  mother, 

Are  many  that  roll  in  gold  ; 
There  are  rich  and  pro'-d  men  there,  mother, 

With  wondrous  wealth  to  view. 
And  the  bread  tlicy  fling  to  their  dogs  to-night 

Would  give  life  to  me  and  you. 

Come  nearer  to  my  side,  mother, 

Come  nearer  to  my  side. 
And  hold  me  fondly  as  you  held 

My  father  when  he  died  ; 
Quick  !  for  I  cannot  see  you,  mother. 

My  breath  is  almost  gone  ; 
Mother  !  dear  mother  I  ere  I  die, 

Give  me  three  grains  of  C9m. 

Amelia  Blanford  Edwards. 


IDEAS  THE  LIFE  OF  A  PEOPLE. 

'HE  leaders  of  our  Revolution  were  men  of  whom 
the  simple  truth  is  the  highest  praise.  Of  every 
condition  in  life,  they  were  singularly  sagacious, 
■^  sober,  and  thoughtful.  Lord  Chatham  spoke 
only  the  truth  when  he  said  to  Franklin,  of  the  men 
who  composed  the  first  colonial  Congress  :  "  The 
Congress  is  the  most  honorable  assembly  of  statesmen 
since  those  of  the  ancient  Greeks  and  Romans  in  the 
most  virtuous  times."  Given  to  grave  reflection,  they 
were  neither  dreamers  nor  visionaries,  and  they  were 
much  too  earnest  to  be  rhetoricians.  It  is  a  curious 
fact,  that  they  were  generally  men  of  so  calm  a  temper 
.that  they  lived  to  extreme  age.  With  the  exception  of 
Patrick  Henry  and  Samuel  Adams,  they  were  most  of 
them  profound  scholars,  and  studied  the  history  of 
mankind  that  they  might  know  men.  They  were  so 
familiar  with  the  lives  and  thoughts  of  the  wisest  and 
best  minds  of  the  past  that  a  classic  aroma  hangs  about 
their  writings  and  their  speech ;  and  they  were  pro- 
foundly convinced  of  what  statesmen  always  know,  and 
the  adroitest  mere  politicians  never  perceive — that  ideas 


are  the  life  of  a  people  ;  that  the  conscience,  not  the 
pocket,  is  the  real  citadel  of  a  nation,  and  that  when 
you  have  debauched  and  demoralized  that  conscience 
by  teaching  tl-.at  there  are  no  natural  rights,  and  that 
therefore  there  is  no  moral  right  or  wrong  in  political 
action,  you  have  poisoned  the  wells  and  rotted  the 
crops  in  the  ground. 

The  three  greatest  living  statesmen  of  England  knew 
this  also,  Edmund  Burke  knew  it,  and  Charles  James 
Fox,  and  William  Pitt,  Earl  of  Chatham.  But  they  did 
not  speak  for  the  King,  or  Parliament,  or  the  English 
nation.  Lord  Gower  spoke  for  them  when  he  said  in 
Parliament :  "Let  the  Americans  talk  about  their  natu- 
ral and  divine  riglits  ;  their  rights  as  men  and  citizens ; 
their  rights  from  God  and  nature  I  I  am  for  enforcing 
these  measures."  My  lord  was  contemptuous,  and 
the  King  hired  the  Hessians,  but  the  truth  remained 
true.  The  Fathers  saw  the  scarlet  soldiers  swarming 
over  the  sea,  but  more  steadily  they  saw  that  the  na- 
tional progress  had  been  secure  only  in  the  degree  that 
the  political  system  had  conformed  to  natural  justice. 
They  knew  the  coming  wreck  of  property  and  trade, 
but  they  knew  more  surely  that  Rome  was  never  so 
rich  as  when  she  was  dying,  and,  on  the  other  hand, 
the  Netherlands,  never  so  powerful  as  when  they  were 
poorest.  Farther  away,  they  read  the  names  of  As- 
syria, Greece,  Egypt.  They  had  art,  opulence,  splen- 
dor. Corn  enough  grew  in  the  valley  of  the  Nile.  The 
Syrian  sword  was  as  sharp  as  any.  They  were  mer- 
chant princes,  and  the  clouds  in  the  sky  were  rivaled 
by  their  sails  upon  the  sea.  They  were  soldiers,  and 
their  frown  frightened  the  world. 

"  Soul,  take  thine  ease,"  those  empires  said,  languid 
with  excess  of  luxury  and  life.  Yes:  but  you  remem- 
ber the  king  who  had  built  his  grandest  palace,  and  was 
to  occupy  it  upon  the  morrow ;  but  when  the  morrow 
came  the  palace  was  a  pile  of  ruins.  "  Woe  is  me  1 " 
cried  the  King,  "  who  is  guilty  of  this  crime  ?  "  "There 
is  no  crime,"  replied  the  sage  at  his  side;  "but  the 
mortar  was  made  of  sand  and  water  only,  and  the 
builders  forgot  to  put  in  the  lime."  So  fell  the  old  em- 
pires, because  the  governors  forgot  to  put  justice  into 
their  governments. 

George  William  Curtis. 


MY  MIND  TO  ME  A  KINGDOM  IS. 


Ill 


Y  mind  to  me  a  kingdom  is  ; 

Such  perfect  joy  therein  I  find 
As  far  exceeds  all  earthly  bliss 
That  God  or  nature  hath  assigned; 
Though  much  I  want  that  most  would  have, 
Yet  still  my  mind  forbids  to  crave. 

Content  I  live  ;  this  is  my  stay — 
I  seek  no  more  than  may  suffice. 

I  press  to  bear  no  haughty  sway  ; 
Look,  what  I  lack  my  mind  supplies. 

Lo  !  thus  I  triumph  like  a  king, 

Content  with  that  my  mind  doth  bring. 


270 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


I  see  how  plenty  surfeits  oft, 

And  hasty  climbers  soonest  fall ; 
I  see  that  such  as  sit  aloft 

Mishap  doth  threaten  most  of  all. 
These  get  with  toil,  and  keep  with  fear ; 
Such  cares  my  mind  could  never  bear. 

No  princely  pomp  nor  wealthy  store. 

No  force  to  win  the  victory, 
No  wily  wit  to  salve  a  sore, 

No  shape  to  win  a  lover's  eye — 
To  none  of  these  I  yield  as  thrall ; 
For  why,  my  mind  despiseth  all. 

Some  have  too  much,  yet  still  they  crave  ; 

I  little  have,  yet  seek  no  more. 
They  are  but  poor,  though  much  they  have  ; 

And  I  am  rich  with  little  store. 
They  poor,  I  rich  ;  they  beg,  I  give ; 
They  lack,  I  lend  ;  they  pine,  I  live. 

I  laugh  not  at  another's  loss, 

I  grudge  not  at  another's  gain ; 
No  worldly  wave  my  mind  can  toss ; 

I  brook  that  is  another's  bane. 
I  fear  no  foe,  nor  fawn  on  friend  ; 
I  loathe  not  life,  nor  dread  mine  end. 

I  joy  not  in  no  earthly  bliss; 

I  wei^h  not  Crcesus'  wealth  a  straw; 
For  care,  I  care  not  what  it  is  ; 

I  fear  net  fortune's  fatal  law  ; 
My  mind  is  such  as  may  not  move 
For  beauty  bright,  or  force  of  love. 

I  wish  but  what  I  have  at  will ; 

I  wander  not  to  seek  for  more ; 
I  like  the  plain,  I  climb  no  hill ; 

In  greatest  storms  I  sit  on  shore, 
And  laugh  at  them  that  toil  in  vain 
To  get  what  must  be  lost  again. 

I  kiss  not  where  I  wish  to  kill ; 

I  feign  not  love  where  most  I  hate; 
I  break  no  sleep  to  win  my  will ; 

I  wait  not  at  the  inighty's  gate. 
I  scorn  no  poor,  I  fear  no  rich  ; 
I  feel  no  want,  nor  have  too  much. 

The  court  nor  cart  I  like  nor  loathe  ; 

Extremes  are  counted  worst  of  all ; 
The  golden  mean  betwixt  them  both 

Do.h  surest  suit,  and  fears  no  fall ; 
This  is  my  choice  ;  for  why,  I  find 
No  wealth  is  like  a  quiet  mind. 

My  wealth  is  health  and  perfect  ease  ; 

My  conscience  clear  my  chief  defence  ; 
I  never  seek  by  bri'ocs  to  please. 

Nor  by  desert  to  give  offence. 
Thus  do  I  live,  thus  will  I  die  ; 
Would  i.11  did  so  as  well  as  I ! 

William  Byrd. 


THE  RIGHT  MUST  CONQUER. 

N  this  world,  with  ils  wild  whirling  eddies  and  mad 
foam  oceans,  where  men  and  nations  perish  as  if 
without  law,  and  judgment  for  an  unjust  thing  is 
sternly  delayed,  dost  thou  think  that  there  is 
therefore  no  justice?  It  is  what  the  fool  hath  said  in 
h.is  heart.  It  is  what  the  wise  in  all  times  were  wise 
because  they  denied,  and  knew  forever  not  to  be.  I 
tell  thee  again,  there  is  nothing  else  but  jur-tice.  One 
strong  thing  I  find  here  below  :  the  just  thing,  the  true 
thing. 

My  friend,  if  thou  hadst  all  the  artillery  of  Woolwich 
trundling  at  thy  back  in  support  of  an  unjust  thing,  and 
infinite  bonfires  visibly  waiting  ahead  of  tliee,  to  blaze 
centuries  long  for  thy  victory  on  behalf  of  it,  I  would 
advise  thee  to  call  halt,  to  fling  down  thy  baton  and 
say,  "  In  Heaven's  name,  no  !  " 

Thy  "success  "  ?  Poor  fellow  !  what  will  thy  success 
amount  to?  If  the  thing  is  unjust,  thou  hast  not 
succeeded ;  no,  not  though  bonfires  blazed  from  north 
to  south,  and  bells  rang,  and  editors  wrote  leading 
articles,  and  the  just  things  lay  trampled  out  of  sight  to 
all  mortal  eyes  abolished  and  annihilated  things. 

It  is  the  right  and  noble  alone  that  will  have  victory  in 
this  struggle  ;  the  rest  is  wholly  an  obstruction,  a  post- 
ponement and  fearful  imperilment  of  the  victory.  To- 
wards an  eternal  centre  of  right  and  nobleness,  and  of 
that  oniy,  is  all  confusion  tending.  We  already  know 
whither  it  is  all  tending  ;  what  will  have  victory,  what 
will  have  none.  The  heaviest  will  reach  the  centre. 
The  heaviest  has  it.i  deflections,  its  obstructions,  nay, 
at  times  its  reboundings  ;  whereupon  some  blockhead 
shall  be  hcardjubilating,  "See,  your  heaviest  ascends !" 
but  at  all  moments  it  is  moving  centreward  fast  as  it  is 
convenient  for  it;  sinking,  sinking;  and,  by  laws  o'der 
tlian  the  world,  old  as  the  Maker's  first  plan  of  the 
world,  it  has  to  arrive  there. 

Await  the  issue.  In  all  battles,  if  you  await  the  issue, 
each  fighter  has  prospered  according  to  his  right.  Ills 
riglit  and  his  might,  at  the  close  of  the  account,  were 
one  and  the  same.  He  has  fought  with  all  his  might, 
and  in  exact  proportion  to  all  his  right  lie  has  prevailed. 
His  very  death  is  no  victory  over  him.  He  dies  in- 
deed ;  but  his  work  lives,  very  truly  lives. 

A  hetcic  Wallace,  quartered  on  the  scaffold,  cannot 
hinder  that  his  Scotland  become,  one  day,  a  part  of 
England  ;  but  he  does  hinder  that  it  become,  on  tyran- 
nous, unfair  terms,  a  part  of  it ;  commands  still,  as  with 
a.god's  voice,  from  his  old  Valhalla  and  Temple  of  the 
Brave,  that  there  be  a  just,  real  union,  as  of  brotlierand 
brother — not  a  fahe  and  merely  semblant  one,  as  of 
slave  and  master.  If  the  union  witli  England  be  in 
fact  one  of  Scotland's  chief  blessings,  we  thank  Wallace 
withal  that  it  was  not  the  chief  curse.  Scotland  is  not 
Ireland ;  no,  because  brave  men  rose  there  and  said, 
"  Behold,  ye  must  not  tread  us  down  like  slaves,  and 
ye  shall  not  and  cannot  1 " 


SENTIMENT  AND    REFLECTION. 


271 


Fight  on,  thou  brave,  true  heart,  and  falter  not, 
through  dark  fortune  and  through  bright.  The  cause 
thou  fighttst  for,  so  far  as  it  is  true,  no  further,  yet  pre- 
cisely so  far,  is  very  sure  of  victory.  The  falsehood 
alone  of  it  will  be  conquered,  will  be  abolished,  as  it 
ought  to  be  ;  but  the  truth  of  it  is  part  of  nature's  own 
laws,  co-operates  with  the  world's  eternal  tendencies, 
and  cannot  be  conquered. 

Tho.mas  Carlvle. 


THE  BLIND  MAN. 

'HERE  is  a  world,  a  pure  unclouded  clime, 
Where  there  is  neither  grief,  nor  death,  nor 
time ! 

"^        Nor  loss  of  friends  !     Perhaps  when  yonder 
bell 
Beat  slow,  and  bade  the  dying  day  farewell. 
Ere  yet  the  glimmering  landscape  sank  to-night, 
They  thought  upon  that  world  of  distant  light ; 
And  when  the  blind  man,  lifting  light  his  hair. 
Felt  the  faint  wind,  he  raised  a  warmer  prayer  ; 
Then  sighed,  as  the  blithe  bird  sung  o'er  his  head, 
"  No  mom  will  shine  on  me  till  I  am  dead  !" 

William  Lisle  Bowles. 


SOMEBODY'S  DARLING. 

'  NTO  a  ward  of  the  whitewashed  halls. 
Where  the  dead  and  dying  lay. 
Wounded  by  bayonets,  shells  and  balls, 
Somebody's  darling  was  borne  one  day — 
Somebody's  darling,  so  young  and  so  brave, 

Wearing  yet  on  his  pale,  sweet  face. 
Soon  to  be  hid  by  the  dust  of  th-;  grave. 
The  lingering  light  of  his  boyhood's  grace. 

Matted  and  damp  are  the  curls  of  gold. 

Kissing  the  snow  of  the  fair  young  brow, 
Pale  are  the  lips  of  delicate  mould — 

Somebody's  darling  is  dying  now. 
Back  from  his  beautiful  blue-veined  brow, 

Brusli  all  the  wandering  waves  of  gold  ; 
Cross  Lis  hands  on  his  bosom  now — 

Somebody's  darling  is  still  and  cold. 

Kiss  him  once  for  somebody's  sake. 

Murmur  a  prayer  both  soft  and  low ; 
One  br'ght  curl  from  its  fair  mates  take — 

They  are  somebody's  pride,  you  know; 
Somebody's  hand  hath  rested  there — 

Was  it  a  mother's,  soft  and  white  ? 
And  have  the  lips  of  a  sister  fair 

Been  baptized  in  their  waves  of  light  ? 

God  knows  best !  he  was  somebody's  love  ; 

Somebody's  heart  enshrined  him  there  ; 
Somebody  wafted  his  name  above. 

Night  and  mom,  on  the  wings'of  prayer. 


Somebody  wept  when  he  marched  away. 
Looking  so  handsome,  brave  and  grand  ; 

Somebody's  kiss  on  his  forehead  lay. 
Somebody  clung  to  his  parting  hand. 

Somebody's  waiting  and  watching  for  him — 

Yearning  to  hold  Iiim  again  to  her  heart ; 
And  there  lie  lies  with  his  blue  eyes  dim, 

And  the  smiling  child-like  lips  apart. 
Tenderly  bury  the  fair  young  dead, 

Pausing  to  drop  on  liis  grave  a  tear ; 
Carve  in  the  wooden  slab  at  his  head, 

"  Somebody's  darling  slumbers  here." 

Marie  R.  Lacoste. 


THE  ROSARY  OF  MY  TEARS. 

OME  reckon  their  age  by  years. 
Some  measure  their  life  by  art ; 
,  But  some  tell  their  days  by  the  flow  of  their 

^  tears, 

And  their  lives  by  the  moans  of  their  heart. 

The  dials  of  earth  may  show 

The  length,  not  the  depth  of  years- 
Few  or  many  they  come,  few  or  many  they  go — 

But  time  is  best  measured  by  tears. 

Ah  !  not  by  the  silver  gray 

That  creeps  through  the  .^^unny  hair. 
And  not  by  the  scenes  that  we  pass  on  our  way, 

And  not  by  tlie  furrows  the  fingers  of  care 

On  forehead  and  face  have  made — 

Not  so  do  we  count  our  years  ; 
Not  by  the  sun  of  the  earth,  but  the  shade 

Of  our  souls,  and  the  fall  of  our  tears. 

For  the  young  are  ofttimes  old, 
Though  their  brows  be  bright  and  fair  ; 

While  their  blood  beats  warm,  their  hearts  are  cold^ 
O'er  them  the  spring — but  winter  is  there. 

And  the  old  are  ofttimes  young 

When  their  hair  is  thin  and  white  ; 
And  they  sing  in  age,  as  in  youth  they  sung 

And  they  laugh,  for  their  cross  was  light. 

But,  bead  by  bead,  I  tell 

The  rosary  of  my  years  ; 
From  a  cross— to  a  cross  they  lead  ;  'tis  well, 

And  they're  blest  with  a  blessing  of  tears. 

Better  a  day  of  strife 

Than  a  century  of  sleep  ; 
Give  me  instead  of  a  long  stream  of  life 

The  tempests  and  tears  of  the  deep. 

A  thousand  joys  may  foam 

On  the  billows  of  all  the  years , 
But  never  the  foam  brings  the  lone  back  home — 

He  reaches  the  haven  through  tears. 

Abram  J.  Ryan. 


272  CROWN   JEWELS. 

THE    COLLIER'S  DYING  CHILD. 


*HE  cottage  was  a  thatched  one,  its  outside  old 
and  mean ; 
Yet  everything  within  that  cot  was  wondrous 
7  neat  and  clean  : 

The  night  was  dark  and  stormy — the  wind  was  blow- 
ing wild; 
A  patient  mother  sat  beside  the  death-bed  of  her  child — 
A  little,  worn-out  creature — his  once  bright  eyes  grown 

dim  : 
It  was  a  collier's  only  child — they  called  him  "Little 

Jim." 
And  oh  !  to  see  the  briny  tears  fast  flowing  down  her 

cheek. 
As  she  offered  up  a  prayer  in  thought! — she  was 

afraid  to  speak, 
Lest  she  might  waken  one  she  loved  far  dearer  than 

her  life ; 
For  she  had  all  a  mother's  heart,  that  wretched  col- 
lier's wife. 
With  hands  uplifted,  see,  she  kneels  beside  the  suf- 
ferer's bed, 
And  prays  that  God  will  spare  her  boy,  and  take  her- 
self instead  ; 
She  gets  her  answer  from  the  child,  soft  falls  these 

words  from  him — 
"  Mother  !  the  angels  do  so  smile,  and  beckon  Little 

Jim! 
I  have  no  pain,  dear  mother,  now  ;  but,  oh  !  I  am  so 

dry: 
Just  moisten  poor  Jim's  lips  once  more  ;  and,  mother, 

do  not  cry  !  " 
With  gentle,  trembling  haste,  she  held  a  teacup  to  his 

lips — 
He  smiled  to  thank  her — then  betook  three  little  tiny 

sips. 
"  Tell  father,  when  he  comes  from  work,  I  said  '  good 

night ! '  to  him ; 
And,mother, now  I'll  goto  sleep."  ....  Alas!  poor 

Little  Jim  ! 
She  saw  that  he  was  dying  !    The  child  the  loved  so 

dear 
Had  uttered  the  last  words  she'd  ever  wish  to  hear. 
The  cottage  door  is    opened— the    collier's  step  is 

heard ; 
The  father  and  the  mother  meet,  but  neither  speak  a 

word: 
He  felt  that  all  was  over — he  knew  the  child  was  dead  ! 
He  took  the  candle  in  his  hand,  and  stood  beside  the 

bed: 
His  quivering  lip  gave  token  of  the  grief  he'd  fain 

conceal ; 
And  see,  the  mother  joins  him  ! — the  stricken  couple 

kneel ; 
With  hearts  bowed  down  by  sorrow,  they  humbly 

ask,  of  Him 
In  heaven,  once  more  that  they  may  meet  their  own 

poor  "Little  Jim!" 


WIND  AND  RAIN. 


J  ATTLE  the  window,  winds  ! 
Rain,  drip  on  the  panes  ! 
There  are  tears  and  sigiis  in  our  hearts  and 
eyes. 
And  a  weary  weight  on  our  brains. 

The  gray  sea  heaves  and  heaves, 

On  the  dreary  flats  of  sand  ; 
And  the  blasted  limb  of  the  churchyard  yew, 

It  shakes  like  a  ghostly  hand  ! 

The  dead  are  engulfed  beneath  it, 

Sunk  in  the  grassy  waves; 
But  we  have  more  dead  in  our  hearts  to-day 

Than  the  earth  in  all  her  graves  ! 

Richard  Henry  Stoddard. 


THE  FUNERAL 

WAS  walking  in  Savannah,  pasta  church  decayed 
and  dim, 
When  there  slowly  through  the  window  came  a 
plaintive  funeral  hymn  ; 
And  a  sympathy  awakened,  and  a  wonder  quickly 

grew. 
Till  I  found  myself  environed  in  a  little  negro  pew. 

Out  at  front  a  colored  couple  sat  in  sorrow,  nearly 
wild. 

On  the  altar  was  a  coffin,  in  the  coffin  was  a  child. 

I  could  picture  him  when  living — curly  hair,  protruding 
lip- 

And  had  seen  perhaps  a  thousand  in  my  hurried  south- 
ern trip. 

But  no  baby  ever  rested  in  the  soothing  arms  of  death 

That  had  fanned  more  flames  of  sorrow  with  his  flut- 
tering breath ; 

And  no  funeral  ever  glistened  with  more  sympathy 
profound 

Than  was  in  the  chain  of  tear  drops  that  enclasped 
those  mourners  round. 

Rose  a  sad  old  colored  preacher  at  the  little  wooden 

desk. 
With  a  manner  grandly  awkward,  with  a  countenance 

grotesque ; 
With  simplicity  and  shrewdness  on  his  Ethiopian  face  ; 
With  the  ignorance  and  wisdom  of  a  crushed,  undying 

race. 

And  he  said,  "  Now,  don'  be  weepin*  for  dis  pretty  bit 

o'  clay. 
For  de  little  boy  who  lived  there,  he  done  gone  and 

rim  away ! 
He  was  doin'  very  finely,  and  he  'precitate  your  love  ; 
But  his  sure  'nuff"  Father  want  him  inde  large  house  up 

above. 


SENTIMENT  AND    REFLECTION. 


273 


"Now,  He  didn'  give  you  dat  baby,  by  a  hundred 

thousand  mile ! 
He  jist  think  you  need  some  sunshine,  an'  He  lend  it 

for  a  while ! 
An'  He  let  you  keep  an'  love  him  till  your  heart  was 

bigger  grown ; 
An'  dese  silver  tears  you're  sheddin's  jest  de  interest 

on  de  loan. 

\ 
' '  Here  yer  oder  pretty  chilrun  ! — Don't  be  makin'  it 

appear 
Dat  your  love  got  sort  o'  'nopolized  by  this  little  fellow 

here. 
Don't  pile  up  too  much  your  sorrows  on  deir  little 

mental  shelves, 
So's  to  kind  o'  set  'em  wonderin'  if  dey're  no  account 

demselves? 

"Just  you  think,  you  poor  deah  mounahs,  creepin' 
'long  o'er  sorrow's  way. 

What  a  blessed  little  picnic  dis  yere  baby's  got  to-day ! 

Your  good  faders  and  good  moders  crowd  de  little  fel- 
low round 

In  de  angel-tended  garden  of  de  Big  Plantation 
Ground. 

"An'  dey  ask  him,  '  Was  your  feet  sore  ? '  an'  take  off 

his  little  shoes. 
An'  dey  wash  him,  and  dey  kiss  him,  and  dey  say, 

'  Now,  what's  de  news  ? ' 
An'  de  Lawd  done  cut  his  tongue  loose,  den  de  little 

fellow  say : 
'  All  our  folks  down  in  de  valley  tries  to  keep  de  heb- 

enly  way.' 

"An'  his  eyes  dey  brightly  sparkle  at  de  pretty  things 

he  view ; 
Den  a  tear  come,  and  he  whisper  :     *  But  I  want  my 

paryents,  too ! ' 
But  de  Angel  Chief  Musician  teach  dat  boy  a  little 

song ; 
Says,  '  If  only  dey  be  faithful,  dey  will  soon  be  comin' 

'long.' 

"An'  he'll  get  an  education  dat  will  proberly  be  worth 

Seberal  t  mes  as  much  as  any  you  could  buy  for  him  on 
earth ; 

He'll  be  in  de  Lawd  s  big  school-house,  widout  no  con- 
tempt or  fear. 

While  dere's  no  end  to  de  bad  tings  might  have  hap- 
pened to  him  here. 

"So,  my  pooah  dejected  mounahs,  let  your  hearts  wid 

Jesus  rest, 
An'  don't  go  to  critersizin'  dat  ar  One  wot  knows  the 

best! 
He  have  sent  us  many  comforts— He  have  right  to  take 

away — 
To  the  Lawd  be  praise  an'  glory,  now  and  ever !    Let 

us  pray." 

Will  M.  Carleton. 
18 


NINE  GRAVES  IN  EDINBORO'. 


Robert  Arnim  says  concerning  the  death  of  Jemmy  Camber,  one 
of  the  jesters  of  King  James  I,  during  his  reign  in  Scotland: 
"Jemmy  rose,  made  him  ready,  takes  Ms  liorse,  and  rides  to  the 
churchyard  in  tlie  high  towne,  where  he  found  the  sexton  (as  the 
custom  is  there)  making  nine  graves— three  for  men,  three  for 
women,  and  three  for  children;  and  whoso  dyes  next,  first  come, 
first  served.  'Lend  me  thy  spade,'  says  Jemmy,  and  wilh  that 
digs  a  hole,  which  hole  he  bids  him  make  for  his  grave  ;'and  doih 
give  him  a  French  crowne.  The  man,  willing  to  please  him  (more 
for  his  gold  than  his  pleasure^  did  so;  and  the  foole  gets  upon  his 
horse,  rides  to  a  gentleman  of  the  towne,  and  on  the  sodaine  with- 
in two  houres  after  dyed ;  of  whom  the  sexton  telling,  he  was 
buried  there  indeed." 

N  the  church-yard,  up  in  the  old  high  town, 
The  sexton  stood  at  his  daily  toil, 
And  he  lifted  his  mattock  and  drove  it  down, 
And  sunk  it  deep  in  the  sacred  soil. 

And  then  as  he  delved  he  sang  right  lustily, 
Aye  as  he  deepened  and  shaped  the  graves 

In  the  black.old  mold  that  smelled  so  mustily, 
And  thus  was  the  way  of  the  sexton's  staves : 

"  It's  nine  o'  the  clock,  and  I  have  begun 
The  settled  task  that  is  daily  mine  ; 
By  ten  o'  the  clock  I  will  finish  one — 
By  six  o'  the  clock  there  must  be  nine  : 

"Just  three  for  women,  and  three  for  men  ; 
And,  to  fill  the  number,  another  three 
For  daughters  of  women  and  sons  of  men 
Who  men  or  women  shall  never  be. 

"  And  the  first  of  the  graves  in  a  row  of  three 
Is  his  or  hers  who  shall  first  appear  ; 
All  lie  in  the  order  they  come  to  me. 
And  such  has  been  ever  the  custom  here." 

The  first  they  brought  was  a  fair  young  child, 
And  they  saw  him  buried  and  went  their  way ; 

And  the  sexton  leaned  on  his  spade  and  smiled, 
And  wondered,  "  How  many  more  to-day?" 

The  next  was  a  man ;  then  a  woman  came  : 
The  sexton  had  loved  her  in  years  gone  by  ; 

But  the  years  had  gone,  and  the  dead  old  dame 
He  buried  as  deep  as  his  memory. 

At  six  o'  the  clock  his  task  was  done  ; 

Eight  graves  were  closed,  and  the  ninth  prepared- 
Made  ready  to  welcome  a  man — what  one 

'Twas  little  the  grim  old  sexton  cared. 

He  sat  him  down  on  its  brink  to  rest. 
When  the  clouds  were  red  and  the  sky  was  gray, 

And  said  to  himself:  " This  last  is  the  best 
And  deepest  of  all  I  have  digged  to-day. 

"Who  will  fill  it,  I  wonder,  and  when  ? 
It  does  not  matter :  whoe'er  they  be. 
The  best  and  the  worst  of  the  race  of  men 
Are  all  alike  when  they  come  to  me." 


274 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


They  went  to  him  with  a  man,  next  day, 
When  the  sky  was  gray  and  the  clouds  were  red, 

As  the  sun  set  forth  on  his  upward  way  ; 
They  went — and  they  found  the  sexton  dead. 

Dead,  by  the  open  grave,  was  he  ; 

And  they  buried  him  in  it  that  self-same  day, 
And  marvelled  much  such  a  thing  should  be ; 

And  since,  the  people  will  often  say : 

If  ye  dig,  no  matter  when, 
Graves  to  bury  other  men. 
Think — it  never  can  be  known 
WhenyeUl  chance  to  dig  your  own. 
Mind  ye  of  the  tale  ye  know — 
Nine  graves  in  Edinbro. 

Irwin  Russell. 


W 


WHEN   I  BENEATH    THE  COLD  RED  EARTH 
AM  SLEEPING. 

*"*    'HEN  I  beneath  the  cold  red  earth  am  sleep- 
ing, 

Life's  fever  o'er. 
Will  there  for  me  be  any  bright  eye  weeping 
That  I'm  no  more  ? 
Will  there  be  any  heart  still  memory  keeping 
Of  heretofore  ? 

When  the  great  winds  through  leafless  orests  rushing, 

Like  full  hearts  break — 
When  the  swollen  streams,   o'er  crag  and  gully  gush- 
ing, 

Sad  music  make — 
Will  there  be  one,  whose  heart  despair  is  crushing. 

Mourn  for  my  sake  ? 

When  the  bright  sun  upon  that  spot  is  shining 

With  purest  ray. 
And  the  small  flowers,  their  buds  and  blossoms  twin- 
ing. 

Burst  through  that  clay — 
W^ill  there  be  one  still  on  that  spot  repining 

Lost  hopes  all  day  ? 

When  the  night  shadows,  with  the  ample  sweeping 

Of  her  dark  pall. 
The  world  and  all  its  manifold  creation  sleeping — 

The  great  and  small — 
Will  there  be  one,  e\'en  at  that  dread  hour,  weeping 

For  me — for  all  ? 

When  no  star  twinkles  with  its  eyes  of  glory 

On  that  low  mound. 
And  wintry  storms  have  witii  their  ruins  hoary 

Its  lonene^s  crowned, 
Will  there  be  then  one,  versed  in  misery's  story. 

Pacing  it  round  ? 

It  may  be  so — but  this  is  selfish  sorrow 

To  ask  such  meed — 
A  meekness  and  a  wickedness,  to  borrow 


From  hearts  that  bleed 
The  wailings  of  to-day,  for  what  to-morrow 
,  Shall  never  need. 

Lay  me  then  gently  in  my  narrow  dwelling, 

Thou  gentle  heart ! 
And,  though  thy  bosom  should  with  grief  be  swelling, 

Let  no  tear  start ; 
It  were  in  vain — for  time  hath  long  been  knelling — 

Sad  one,  depart  I 

"William  Motherwell 


ALEXANDER'S  FEAST;  OR,  THE  POWER  OF 
MUSIC. 

WAS  at  the  royal  feast  for  Persia  won 

By  Philip's  war-like  son — 

Aloft  in  awful  state 
*!*       The  godlike  hero  sate 
On  his  imperial  throne  ; 
His  valiant  peers  were  placed  around, 
Their  brows  with  roses  and  with  myrtles  bound, 
(So  should  desert  in  arms  be  crowned  ;) 
The  lovely  Thais  by  his  side 
Sate  like  a  blooming  Eastern  bride 
In  flower  of  youth  and  beauty's  pride : — 
Happy,  happy,  happy  pair  ! 
None  but  the  brave 
None  but  the  brave 
None  but  the  brave  deserves  the  fair ! 

Timotheus,  placed  on  high  ■ 

Amid  the  tuneful  choir, 

With  flying  fingers  touched  the  lyre : 

The  trembling  notes  ascend  the  sky, 

And  heavenly  joys  inspire. 

The  song  began  from  Jove, 

Who  left  his  blissful  seats  above — 

Such  is  the  power  of  mighty  love  ! 

A  dragon's  fiery  form  belied  the  god ; 

Sublime  on  radiant  spheres  he  rode 

When  he  to  fair  Olympia  prest. 

And  while  he  sought  her  snowy  breast ; 

Then  round  her  slender  waist  he  curled. 

And  stamped  an  image  of  himself,  a  sovereign  of  the 

world, 
— The  listening  crowd  admire  the  lofty  sound ! 
A  present  deity  !  they  shout  around : 
A  present  deity !  the  vaulted  roofs  rebound  ! 
With  ravished  ears 
The  monarch  hears, 
Assumes  the  god ; 
Affects  to  nod. 
And  seems  to  shake  the  spheres. 

The  praise  of  Bacchus  then  the  sweet  musician  sung — 
Of  Bacchus  ever  fair  and  ever  young  : 
The  jolly  god  in  triumph  comes  ! 
Sound  the  trumpets,  beat  thu-  drums  ! 


SENTIMENT  AND   REFLECTION. 


275 


Flushed  with  a  purple  grace 

He  shows  his  honest  face : 

Now  give  tlie  hautboys  breatli ;  he  comes,  he  comes ! 

Bacchus,  ever  fair  and  young. 

Drinking  joys  did  first  ordam  ; 

Bacchus'  blessings  are  a  treasure, 

Drinkmg  is  the  soldier's  pleasure  : 

Rich  the  treasure, 

Sweet  the  pleasure. 

Sweet  is  pleasure  after  pain. 

Soothed  with  the  sound,  the  King  grew  vain  ; 

Fought  all  his  battles  o'er  again, 

And  thrice  he  routed  all  his  foes,  and  thrice  he  slew 

the  slain ! 
The  master  saw  the  madness  rise, 
His  glowing  cheeks,  his  ardent  eyes  ; 
And  while  he  heaven  and  earth  defied 
Changed  his  hand  and  checked  his  pride. 
He  chose  a  mournful  muse 
Soft  pity  to  infuse  : 
He  sung  Darius  great  and  good, 
By  too  severe  a  fate 
Fallen,  fallen,  fallen,  fallen, 
Fallen  from  his  high  estate. 
And  weltering  in  his  blood  ; 
Deserted,  at  his  utmost  need. 
By  tliose  his  former  bounty  fed  ; 
On  the  bare  earth  exposed  he  lies 
With  not  a  friend  to  close  his  eyes. 
With  downcast  looks  the  joyless  victor  sate, 
Revolving  in  his  altered  soul 
The  various  turns  of  chance  below  ; 
And  now  and  then  a  sigh  he  stole, 
And  tears  began  to  flow. 

The  mighty  master  smiled  to  see 
That  love  was  in  the  next  degree  ; 
'Twas  but  a  kindred  sound  to  move, 
For  pity  melts  tlie  mind  to  love. 
Softly  sweet,  in  Lydian  measures 
Soon  he  soothed  his  soul  to  pleasures. 
War,  he  sung,  is  toil  and  trouble. 
Honor  but  an  empty  bubble. 
Never  ending,  still  beginning; 
Fighting  still,  and  still  destroying; 
If  the  world  be  worth  thy  winning, 
Think,  O  think,  it  worth  enjoying  : 
Lovely  Thais  sits  beside  thee. 
Take  the  good  the  gods  provide  thee  ! 

The  many  rend  the  skies  with  loud  applause ; 
So  love  was  crowned,  but  music  won  the  cause. 
The  prince,  unable  to  conceal  his  pain, 
Gazed  on  the  fair 
Who  caused  his  care, 

And  sighed  and  looked,  sighed  and  looked. 
Sighed  and  looked  and  sighed  again  : 
At  length  with  love  and  wine  at  once  opprest, 
The  vanquished  victor  sunk  upon  her  breast. 


Now  strike  the  golden  lyre  again  : 

A  louder  yet,  and  yet  a  louder  strain  ! 

Break  his  bands  of  sleep  asunder, 

And  rouse  him  like  a  rattling  peal  of  thunder. 

Hark,  hark  !  that  horrid  sound 

Has  raised  up  his  head : 

As  awaked  from  the  dead 

And  amazed  he  stares  around. 

Revenge,  revenge,  Timotheus  cries, 

See  the  furies  arise  ! 

See  the  snakes  that  they  rear 

How  they  hiss  in  their  hair. 

And  the  sparkles  that  flash  from  their  eyes ! 

Behold  a  ghastly  band 

Each  a  torch  in  his  hand  ! 

Those  are  Grecian  ghosts,  that  in  battle  were  slain 

And  unburied  remain 

Inglorious  on  the  plain  : 

Give  the  vengeance  due 

To  the  valiant  crew  I 

Bohold  how  they  toss  their  torches  on  high. 

How  they  point  to  the  Persian  abodes 

And  glittering  temples  of  their  hostile  gods. 

The  princes  applaud  with  a  furious  joy : 
And  the  king  seized  a  flambeau  with  zeal  to  destroy 
Thais  led  the  way 
To  light  him  to  his  prey, 
And  like  another  Helen,  fired  another  Troy  ! 

Thus  long  ago, 

Ere  heaving  bellows  learned  to  blow. 

While  organs  yet  were  mute, 

Timotheus,  to  his  breathing  flute 

And  sounding  lyre 

Could  swell  the  soul  to  rage,  or  kindle  sofl  desire. 

At  last  divine  Cecilia  came, 

Inventress  of  the  vocal  frame ; 

The  sweet  enthusiast  from  her  sacred  store 

Enlarged  the  former  narrow  bounds, 

And  added  length  to  solemn  sounds. 

With  nature's  mother-wit,  and  arts  unknown  before. 

Let  old  Timotheus  yield  the  prize. 
Or  both  divide  the  crown  ; 
He  raised  a  mortal  to  the  skies  ; 
She  drew  an  angel  down ! 

John  Dryden. 


R 


ART  AND  NATURE. 

ATURE  is  made  better  by  no  mean. 

But  nature  makes  that  mean  :  so  over  thrt 

art 

Which  you  say  adds  to  nature  is  an  art 
That  nature  makes.    You  see,  sweet  maid,  we  marr 
A  gentler  scion  to  the  wildest  stock, 
And  make  conceive  a  bark  of  baser  kind 
By  buds  of  nobler  race.    This  is  an  art 
Which  does  mend  nature,  change  it  rather ;  but 
The  art  itself  is  nature. 

William  Shakspeare. 


276 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


D/EDALUS. 

AIL  for  Daedalus,  all  that  is  fairest  ! 
All  that  is  tuneful  in  air  or  wave  ! 
Shapes  whose  beauty  is  truest  and  rarest, 
Haunt   with    your    lamps   and  spells    his 
erave ! 


Statues,  bend  your  heads  in  sorrow, 

Ye  that  glance  'mid  ruins  old, 

That  know  not  a  past,  nor  expect  a  morrow 

On  many  a  moonlight  Grecian  wold  ! 

By  sculptured  cave  and  speaking  river, 
Thee,  Daedalus,  oft  the  nymphs  recall ; 
The  leaves  with  a  sound  of  winter  quiver, 
Murmur  thy  name,  and  withering  fall. 

Yet  are  thy  visions  in  soul  the  grandest 
Of  all  that  crowd  on  the  tear-dimmed  eye. 
Though,  Daedalus,  thou  no  more  commandest 
New  stars  to  that  ever-widening  sky. 

Ever  thy  phantoms  arise  before  us. 
Our  loftier  brothers,  but  one  in  blood  ; 
By  bed  and  ta'-le  they  lord  it  o'er  us, 
With  looks  of  beauty  and  words  of  good. 

Calmly  they  show  us  mankind  victorious 
O'er  all  that's  aimless,  blind,  and  base  ; 
Their  presence  has  made  our  nature  glorious, 
Unveiling  our  night's  illumined  face. 

Wail  for  Daedalus,  earth  and  ocean  ! 
.Stars  and  sun,  lament  for  him  ! 
Ages  quake  in  strange  commotion  ! 
All  ye  realms  of  life  be  dim! 

Wail  for  Daedalus,  awful  voices, 
From  earth's  deep  centre  mankind  appall ! 
Seldom  ye  sound,  and  then  death  rejoices, 
For  he  knows  that  then  the  mightiest  fall. 

John  Sterling. 

DICKENS  IN  CAMP, 


BOVE  the  pines  the  moon  was  slowly  drifting. 
The  river  sang  below ; 
The  dim  Sierras,  far  beyond,  uplifting 
Their  minarets  of  snow. 


The  roaring  camp-fire,  with  rude  humor,  painted 

The  ruddy  tmts  oi  health 
On  haggard  face  and  form  that  drooped  and  fainted 

In  the  fierce  race  of  wealth  ; 

Till  one  arose,  and  from  his  pack's  scant  treasure, 

A  hoarded  volume  drew. 
And  cards  were  dropped  from  hands  of  listless  leisure, 

To  hear  the  tale  anew ; 

And  then,  while  round  them  shadows  gathered  faster, 
And  as  the  firelight  fell. 


He  read  aloud  the  book  wherein  the  Master 
Had  writ  of  "  Little  Nell." 

Perhaps  'twas  boyish  fancy— for  the  reader 

Was  youngest  of  them  all — 
But,  as  he  read,  from  clustering  pine  and  cedar 

A  silence  seemed  to  fall ; 

The  fir  trees,  gathering  doser  in  the  shadows, 

Listened  in  every  spray. 
While  the  whole  camp,  with    "  Nell,"   on  English 
meadows 

Wandered  and  lost  their  way. 

And  so  in  mountain  solitudes — o'ertaken 

As  by  some  spell  divine — 
Their  cares  dropped    from  them  like    the   needles 
shaken 

From  out  the  gusty  pine. 

Lost  is  that  camp,  and  wasted  all  its  fire : 

And  he  who  wrought  that  spell  ? — 
Ah,  towering  pine  and  stately  Kentish  spire, 

Ye  have  one  tale  to  tell ! 

Lost  is  that  camp  !  but  let  its  fragrant  story 

Blend  with  the  breath  that  thrills 
With  hop-vines'  incense  all  the  pensive  glory 

That  fills  the  Kentish  hills. 

And  on  that  grave  where  English  oak  and  holly, 

And  laurel  wreaths  intwine, 
Deem  it  not  all  a  too  presumptuous  folly — 

This  spray  of  western  pine. 

Bret  Harte. 


JAMES  MELVILLE'S  CHILD. 

NE  time  my  soul  was  pierced  as  with  a  sword, 
Contending  still  with  men  untaught  and 
wild. 
When  He  who  to  the  prophet  lent  his  gourd, 
Gave  me  the  solace  of  a  pleasant  child. 

A  summer  gift,  my  precious  flower  was  given, 

A  very  summer  fragrance  was  its  life ; 
Its  clear  eyt  s  soothed  me  as  the  blue  of  heaven, 

When  home  I  turned,  a  weary  man  of  strife. 

With  unformed  laughter,  musically  sweet. 

How  soon  the  wakening  babe  would  meet  my  kiss  • 

With  outstretched  arms,  its  care-wrought  father  greet ! 
O,  in  the  desert,  what  a  spring  was  this  ! 

A  few  short  months  it  blossomed  near  my  heart : 
A  few  short  months,  else  toilsome  all,  and  sad  ; 

But  that  home-solace  nerved  me  lor  my  part, 
And  of  the  babe  I  was  exceeding  glad. 

Alas  !  my  pretty  bud,  scarce  formed,  was  dying, 
(The  prophet's  gourd,  it  withered  in  a  night !) 

And  He  who  gave  me  all,  my  heart's  pulse  trying. 
Took  gently  home  the  child  of  my  delight. 


SENTIMENT  AND   REFLECTION. 


277 


Not  rudely  culled,  not  suddenly  it  perished, 
But  gradual  faded  from  our  love  away  : 

As  if,  still,  secret  dews,  its  life  that  cherished, 
Were  drop  by  drop  withheld,  and  day  by  day. 

My  blessed  Master  saved  me  from  repining, 

So  tenderly  He  sued  me  for  His  own  ; 
So  beautiful  He  made  my  babe's  declining. 

Its  dying  blessed  me  as  its  birth  had  done. 

And  daily  to  my  board  at  noon  and  even 
Our  fading  flower  I  bade  his  mother  bring, 

That  we  might  commune  of  our  rest  in  heaven, 
Gazing  the  while  on  death,  without  its  sting. 

And  of  the  ransom  for  that  baby  paid. 

So  very  sweet  at  times  our  converse  seemed. 

That  the  sure  truth  of  grief  a  gladness  made  : 
Our  little  lamb  by  God's  own  Lamb  redeemed  ! 

There  were  two  milk-white  doves  my  wife  had  nour- 
ished : 

And  I,  too,  loved,  erewhile,  at  times  to  stand 
Marking  how  each  the  other  fondly  cherished, 

And  fed  them  from  my  baby's  dimpled  hand  ! 

So  tame  they  grew,  that  to  his  cradle  flying. 
Full  oft  they  cooed  him  to  his  noontide  rest ; 

And  to  the  murmurs  of  his  sleep  replying. 
Crept  gently  in,  and  nestled  in  his  breast. 

'Twas  a  fair  sight ;  the  snow-pale  infant  sleeping, 
So  fondly  guardianed  by  those  creatures  mild. 

Watch  o'er  his  closed  eyes  their  bright  eyes  keeping 
Wondrous  the  love  betwixt  the  birds  and  child ! 

Still  as  he  sickened  seemed  the  doves  too  dwining. 
Forsook  their  food,  and  loathed  their  pretty  play  ; 

And  on  the  day  he  died,  with  sad  note  pining, 
One  gentle  bird  would  not  be  frayed  away. 

His  mother  found  it,  when  she  rose,  sad  hearted, 
At  early  dawn,  with  sense  of  nearing  ill ; 

And  when  at  last,  the  little  spirit  parted. 
The  dove  died  too,  as  if  of  its  heart-chill. 

The  other  flew  to  meet  my  sad  home-riding. 

As  with  a  human  sorrow  in  its  coo; 
To  my  dead  child  and  its  dead  mate  then  guiding, 

Most  pitifully  plained— and  parted  too. 

'Twas  my  first  hansel  and  propine  to  heaven  ; 

And  as  I  laid  my  darling  'neath  the  sod. 
Precious  His  comforts — once  an  infant  given. 

And  offered  with  two  turtle-doves  to  God  ! 

Anna  Stuart  Menteath. 


LOOKING  INTO  THE  FUTURE. 

QT  summer  eve,  when  heaven's  aerial  bow 
Spans  with  bright  arch  the  glittering  hills 
below. 
Why  to  yon  mountain  turns  the  musing  eye. 
Whose  sunbright  summit  mingles  with  the  sky? 
Why  do  those  cliffs  of  shadowy  tint  appear 


More  sweet  than  all  the  landscape  smiling  near? 
'Tis  distance  lends  enchantment  to  the  view, 
And  robes  the  mountain  in  its  azure  hue. 
Thus,  with  delight,  we  linger  to  survey 
The  promised  joys  of  life's  unmeasured  way ; 
Thus,  from  afar,  each  dim-discovered  scene 
More  pleasing  seems  than  all  the  past  hath  been, 
And  every  form  that  fancy  can  repair 
From  dark  oblivion,  glows  divinely  there. 

What  potent  spirit  guides  the  raptured  eye 
To  pierce  the  shades  of  dim  futurity  ? 
Can  wisdom  lend,  with  all  her  heavenly  power, 
The  pledge  of  joy's  anticipated  hour? 
Ah,  no  !  she  darkly  sees  the  fate  of  man — 
Her  dim  horizon  pointed  to  a  span ; 
Or,  if  she  hold  an  image  to  the  view, 
'Tis  nature  pictured  too  severely  true. 

Thomas  Campbkll. 


ONLY  WAITING. 

NLY  waiting  till  the  shadows 
Are  a  little  longer  grown. 
Only  waiting  till  the  glimmer 
Of  the  day's  last  beam  is  flown  ; 
Till  the  night  of  earth  is  faded 

From  the  heart  once  full  of  day, 
Till  the  stars  of  heaven  are  breaking 
Through  the  twilight  soft  and  gray. 

Only  waiting  till  the  reapers 

Have  the  last  sheaf  gathered  home. 
For  the  summer  time  is  faded. 

And  the  autumn  winds  have  come. 
Quickly,  reapers  !  gather  quickly 

The  last  ripe  hours  of  my  heart — 
For  the  bloom  of  life  is  withered, 

And  I  hasten  to  depart. 

Only  waiting  till  the  angels 

Open  wide  the  mystic  gate. 
At  whose  feet  I  long  have  lingered. 

Weary,  poor  and  desolate. 
Even  now  I  hear  the  footsteps. 

And  their  voices  far  away  ; 
If  they  call  me  I  am  waiting, 

Only  waiting  to  obey. 

Only  waiting  till  the  shadows 

Are  a  little  longer  grown, 
Only  waiting  till  the  glimmer 

Of  the  last  day's  beam  is  flown ; 
Then  from  out  the  gathered  darkness, 

Holy,  deathless  stars  shall  rise. 
By  whose  light  my  soul  shall  gladly 

Tread  its  pathway  to  the  skies. 

Francis  Laughton  Mace. 


278 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


U 


m 


THE  WANTS  OF  MAN. 

AN  wants  but  little  here  below. 
Nor  wants  that  little  long." 
'Tis  not  with  me  exactly  so, 
But  'tis  so  in  the  song. 
My  wants  are  many,  and  if  told, 
Would  muster  many  a  score  ; 
And  were  each  wish  a  mint  of  gold, 
I  still  should  long  for  more. 

What  first  I  want  is  daily  bread. 

And  canvas-backs  and  wine  ; 
And  all  the  realms  of  nature  spread 

Before  me  when  I  dine  ; 
With  four  choice  cooks  from  France,  beside. 

To  dress  my  dinner  well ; 
Four  courses  scarcely  can  provide 

My  appetite  to  quell. 

What  next  I  want,  at  heavy  cost, 

Is  elegant  attire : 
Black  sable  furs  for  winter's  frost, 

And  silks  for  summer's  fire  ; 
And  Cashmere  shawls,  and  Brussels  lace 

My  bosom's  front  to  deck, 
And  diamond  rings  my  hands  to  grace. 

And  rubies  for  my  neck. 

And  then  I  want  a  mansion  fair, 

A  dwelling-house,  in  style, 
Four  stories  high,  for  wholesome  air — 

A  massive  marble  pile ; 
With  halls  for  banquetings  and  balls. 

All  furnished  rich  and  fine  ; 
With  high-blood  studs  in  fifty  stalls. 

And  cellars  for  my  wine. 

I  want  a  garden  and  a  park. 

My  dwelling  to  surround — 
A  thousand  acres  (bless  the  mark  !) 

With  walls  encompassed  round — 
Where  flocks  may  range  and  herds  may  low. 

And  kids  and  lambkins  play, 
And  flowers  and  fruits  commingled  grow, 

All  Eden  to  display. 

I  want,  when  summer's  foliage  falls. 

And  autumn  strips  the  trees, 
A  house  within  the  city's  walls. 

For  comfort  and  for  ease  ; 
But  here  as  space  is  somewhat  scant. 

And  acres  somewhat  rare, 
My  house  in  town  I  only  want 

To  occupy — a  square. 

I  want  a  cabinet  profuse 

Of  metals,  coins,  and  gems  ; 
A  printing-press  for  private  use, 

Of  fifty  thousand  em- ; 


And  plants,  and  minerals,  and  shells ; 

Worms,  insects,  fishes,  birds  ; 
And  every  beast  on  earth  that  dwells 

In  solitude  or  herds. 

And  maples  of  fair  glossy  stain, 

Must  form  my  chamber  doors. 
And  carpets  of  the  Wilton  grain 

Must  cover  all  my  floors  ; 
My  walls  with  tapestry  bedecked. 

Must  never  be  outdone  ; 
And  damask  curtains  must  protect 

Their  colors  from  the  sun. 

And  mirrors  of  the  largest  pane 

From  Venice  must  be  brought ; 
And  sandal-wood  and  bamboo-cane 

For  chairs  and  tables  bought ; 
On  all  the  mantel-pieces,  clocks 

Of  thrice-gilt  bronze  must  stand. 
And  screens  of  ebony  and  box 

Invite  the  stranger's  hand. 

I  want  (who  does  not  want  ?)  a  wift^ 

Aflfectionate  and  fair, 
To  solace  all  the  woes  of  life. 

And  all  its  joys  to  share  ; 
Of  temper  sweet,  of  yielding  will, 

Of  firm  yet  placid  mind, 
With  all  my  faults  to  love  me  still, 

With  sentiment  refined. 

And  when  my  bosom's  darling  sings, 

With  melody  divine, 
A  pedal  harp  of  many  strings 

Must  with  her  voice  combine. 
Piano,  exquisitely  wrought. 

Must  open  stand,  apart. 
That  all  my  daughters  may  be  taught 

To  win  the  stranger's  heart. 

My  wife  and  daughters  will  desire 

Refreshment  from  perfumes, 
Cosmetics  for  the  skin  require, 

And  artificial  blooms. 
The  civet  fragrance  shall  dispense, 

And  treasured  sweets  return  ; 
Cologne  revive  the  flagging  sense, 

And  smoking  amber  bum. 

And  when  at  night  my  weary  head 

Begins  to  droop  and  dose, 
A  chamber  south,  to  hold  my  bed. 

For  nature's  sole  repose ; 
With  blankets,  counterpanes  and  sheet. 

Mattress,  and  sack  of  down. 
And  comfortables  for  my  feet, 

And  pillows  for  my  crown. 

I  want  a  warm  and  faithful  friend, 
To  cheer  the  adverse  hour. 


SENTIMENT  AND   REFLECTION. 


279 


Who  ne'er  to  flatter  will  descend, 

Nor  bend  the  knee  to  power ; 
A  friend  to  chide  me  when  I'm  wrong, 

My  inmost  soul  to  see  ; 
And  that  my  friendship  prove  as  strong 

For  him,  as  his  for  me. 

I  want  a  kind  and  tender  heart, 

For  others'  wants  to  feel ; 
A  soul  secure  from  fortune's  dart, 

And  bosom  armed  with  steel ; 
To  bear  Divine  chastisement's  rod, 

And,  mingling  in  my  plan, 
Submission  to  the  will  of  God, 

With  charity  to  man. 

I  want  a  keen,  observing  eye, 

An  ever-listening  ear. 
The  truth  through  all  disguise  to  spy. 

And  wisdom's  voice  to  hear  ; 
A  tongue,  to  speak  at  virtues'  need, 

In  heaven's  sublimest  strain; 
And  lips,  the  cause  of  man  to  plead, 

And  never  plead  in  vain. 

I  want  uninterrupted  health. 

Throughout  my  long  career. 
And  streams  of  never-failing  wealth, 

To  scatter  far  and  near — 
The  destitute  to  clothe  and  feed. 

Free  bounty  to  bestow. 
Supply  the  helpless  orphan's  need. 

And  soothe  the  widow's  woe. 

I  want  the  seals  of  power  and  place. 

The  ensigns  of  command, 
Charged  by  the  people's  unbought  grace. 

To  rule  my  native  land  ; 
Nor  crown,  nor  sceptre  would  I  ask, 

But  from  my  country's  will. 
By  day,  by  night,  to  ply  the  task 

Her  cup  of  bliss  to  fill. 

I  want  the  voice  of  honest  praise 

To  follow  me  behind. 
And  to  be  thought,  in  future  days. 

The  friend  of  human  kind  ; 
That  after-ages,  as  they  rise, 

Exulting  may  proclaim; 
In  choral  union  to  the  skies. 

Their  blessings  on  my  name. 

These  are  the  wants  of  mortal  man ; 

I  cannot  need  them  long. 
For  life  itself  is  but  a  span, 

And  earthly  bliss  a  song. 
My  last  great  want,  absorbing  all. 

Is,  when  beneath  the  sod. 
And  summoned  to  my  final  call — 

The  mercy  of  my  God. 

John  Quincv  Adams. 


THE  RAVEN. 

NCE  upon  a  midnight  dreary, 
While  I  pondered,  weak  and  weary, 
Over  many  a  quaint  and  curious 
Volume  of  forgotten  lore, 
While  I  nodded,  nearly  napping, 
Suddenly  there  came  a  tapping, 
As  of  some  one  gently  rapping, 
Rapping  at  my  chamber  door. 
"  'Tis  some  visitor,"  I  muttered, 

"Tapping  at  my  chamber  door — 
Only  this,  and  nothing  more." 

Ah,  distinctly  I  remember. 
It  was  in  the  bleak  December, 
And  each  separate  dying  ember 

Wrought  its  ghost  upon  the  floor. 
Eagerly  I  wished  the  morrow; 
Vainly  I  had  tried  to  borrow 
From  my  books  surcease  of  sorrow — 

Sorrow  for  the  lost  Lenore — 
For  the  rare  and  radiant  maiden 

Whom  the  angels  name  Lenore — 

Nameless  here  for  evermore. 

And  the  silken,  sad,  uncertain 
Rustling  of  each  purple  curtain 
Thrilled  me — filled  me  with  fantastic 

Terrors  never  felt  before ; 
So  that  now,  to  still  the  beating 
Of  my  heart,  I  stood  repeating 
*'  'Tis  some  visitor  entreating 

Entrance  at  my  chamber  door — 
Some  late  visitor  entreating 

Entrance  at  my  chamber  door ; — 

This  it  is,  and  nothing  more." 

Presently  my  soul  grew  stronger ; 
Hesitating  then  no  longer, 
"Sir,"  said  I,  "or  Madam,  truly 

Your  forgiveness  I  implore ; 
But  the  fact  is  I  was  napping, 
And  so  gently  you  came  rapping, 
And  so  faintly  you  came  tapping, 

Tapping  at  my  chamber  door, 
That  I  scarce  was  sure  I  heard  you" — 

Here  I  opened  wide  the  door : 

Darkness  there,  and  nothing  more  ! 

Deep  into  that  darkness  peering. 
Long  I  stood  there  wondering,  fearing. 
Doubting,  dreaming  dreams  no  mortal 

Ever  dared  to  dream  before; 
But  the  silence  was  unbroken, 
And  the  darkness  gave  no  token. 
And  the  only  word  there  spoken 

Was  the  whispered  word,  '  Lenore  !" 
This  I  whispered,  and  an  echo 

Murmured  back  the  word,  "  Lenore !" 

Merely  this,  and  nothing  more. 


:^80 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


Then  into  the  chamber  turning, 
AH  my  soul  within  me  burning, 
Soon  I  heard  again  a  tapping 

Somewhat  louder  than  before, 
"Surely,"  said  I,  "surely  that  is 
Something  at  my  window  lattice ; 
Let  me  see,  then,  what  thereat  is, 

And  this  mystery  explore — 
Let  my  heart  be  still  a  moment, 

And  this  mystery  explore  ;  — 

'Tis  the  wind,  and  nothing  more  1" 

Open  here  I  flung  the  shutter, 

When,  with  many  a  flirt  and  flutter, 
In  there  stepped  a  stately  raven 

Of  the  saintly  days  of  yore ; 
Not  the  least  obeisance  made  he  ; 
Not  ^n  instant  stopped  or  stayed  he  ; 
But,  with  mien  of  lord  or  lady. 

Perched  above  my  chamber  door — 
Perched  upon  a  bust  of  Pallas 

Just  above  my  chamber  door — 

Perched,  and  sat,  and  nothing  more. 

Then  this  ebony  bird  beguiling 

My  sad  fancy  into  smiling, 

By  the  grave  and  stern  decorum 

Of  the  countenance  it  wore, 
'  Though  thy  crest  be  shorn  and  shaven. 
Thou,"  I  said,  "art  sure  no  craven, 
Gtiastly  grim  and  ancient  raven, 

Wandering  from  the  nightly  shore — 
Tell  me  what  thy  lordly  name  is 

On  the  night's  Plutonian  shore  ;" 

Quoth  the  raven,  "Nevermore." 

Much  I  marvelled  this  ungainly 
Fowl  to  hear  discourse  so  plainly, 
Though  its  answer  little  meaning — 

Little  relevancy  bore ; 
For  we  cannot  help  agreeing 
That  no  living  human  being 
Ever  yet  was  blessed  with  seeing 

Bird  above  his  chamber  door — 
Bird  or  beast  upon  the  sculptured 

Bust  above  his  chamber  door. 

With  such  name  as  "  Nevermore." 

But  the  raven  sitting  lonely 
On  the  placid  bust,  spoke  only 
That  one  word,  as  if  his  soul  in 

That  one  word  he  did  outpour. 
Nothing  farther  then  he  uttered — 
Not  a  feather  then  he  fluttered — 
Till  I  scarcely  more  than  muttered 

"  Other  friends  have  flown  before — 
On  the  morrow  he  will  leave  me. 

As  my  hopes  have  flown  before." 

Then  the  bird  said,  "Nevermore." 


Startled  at  the  stillness  broken 
By  reply  so  aptly  spoken, 
"  Doubtless,"  said  I,  "what  it  utters 

It  is  only  stock  and  store 
Caught  from  some  unhappy  master 
Whom  unmerciful  disaster 
Followed  fast  and  followed  faster. 

Till  his  songs  one  burden  bore — 
Till  the  dirges  of  his  hope  the 

Melancholy  burden  bore 

Of '  Nevermore ' — of  '  Nevermore.'  " 

But  the  raven  still  beguiling 
All  my  sad  soul  into  smiling, 
Straight  I  wheeled  a  cushioned  seat  in 

Front  of  bird  and  bust  and  door ; 
Then  upon  the  velvet  sinking, 
I  betook  myself  to  linking 
Fancy  unto  fancy,  thinking 

What  this  ominous  bird  of  yore — 
What  this  grim,  ungainly,  ghastly. 

Gaunt  and  ominous  bird  of  yore 

Meant  in  croaking  "  Nevermore." 

This  I  sat  engaged  in  guessing. 

But  no  syllable  expressing 

To  the  fowl  whose  fiery  eyes  now 

Burned  into  my  bosom's  core  ; 
This  and  more  I  sat  divining. 
With  my  head  at  ease  reclining 
On  the  cushion's  velvet  lining 

That  the  lamplight  gloated  o'er  ; 
But  whose  velvet  violet  lining 

With  the  lamplight  gloating  o'er. 

She  shall  press,  ah,  never  more  ! 

Then,  methought,  the  air  grew  denser. 
Perfumed  from  an  unseen  censer. 
Swung  by  angels  whose  faint  foot-falls 

Tinkled  on  the  tufted  floor. 
"Wretch,"  I  cried,  "thy  God  hath  lent  thee, 
By  these  angels  he  hath  sent  thee 
Respite — respite  and  nepenthe 

From  thy  memories  of  Lenore  ! 
Quaff,  oh,  quaff"  this  kind  nepenthe, 

And  forget  this  lost  Lenore  !  " 

Quoth  the  raven,  "  Nevermore  ! " 

"  Prophet ! "  said  I,  "  thing  of  evil ! — 
Prophet  still,  if  bird  or  devil ! 
Whether  tempter  sent,  or  whether 

Tempest  tossed  thee  here  ashore, 
Desolate  yet  all  undaunted, 
On  this  desert  land  enchanted — 
On  this  home  by  horror  haunted — 

Tell  me  truly,  I  implore — 
Is  there — is  there  balm  in  Gilead  ? 

Tell  me — tell  me,  I  implore  !  " 

Quoth  the  raven,  "  Nevermore." 


SENTIMENT  AND   REFLECTION. 


281 


"  Prophet !  "  said  I,  "  thing  of  evil — 
Prophet  still,  if  bird  or  devil ! — 
By  that  heaven  that  bends  above  us — 

Ey  that  God  we  both  adore — 
Tell  this  soul  with  sorrow  laden 
If,  within  the  distant  Aidenn, 
It  shall  clasp  a  sainted  maiden 

Whom  the  angels  name  Lenore — 
Clasp  a  rare  and  radiant  maiden 

Whom  the  angels  name  Lenore." 

Quoth  the  raven,  "Nevermore." 

"  Be  that  word  our  sign  of  parting. 

Bird  or  fiend  !  "  I  shrieked,  upstarting — 
"Get  thee  back  into  the  tempest 

And  the  night's  Plutonian  shore ! 
Leave  no  black  plume  as  a  token 
Of  that  lie  thy  soul  hath  spoken  ! 
Leave  my  loneliness  unbroken  ! — 

Quit  the  bust  above  my  door  ! 
Take  thy  beak  from  out  my  heart. 

And  take  thy  form  from  off  my  door  ! " 

Quoth  the  raven,  "Nevermore." 

And  the  raven,  never  flitting, 
Still  is  sitting,  still  is  sitting 
On  the  pallid  bust  of  Pallas 

Just  above  my  chamber  door  ; 
And  his  eyes  have  all  the  seeming 
Of  a  demon  that  is  dreaming. 
And  the  lamplight  o'er  him  streaming 

Throws  his  shadow  on  the  floor  ; 
And  my  soul  from  out  that  shadow 

That  lies  floating  on  the  floor 

Shall  be  lifted— nevermore  ! 

Edgar  Allen  Poe. 


THERE'S  NO  DEARTH  OF  KINDNESS. 

'HERE'S  no  dearth  of  kindness 
In  this  world  of  ours  ; 
Only  in  our  blindness 
We  gather  thorns  for  flowers  ! 
Outward,  we  are  spurning — 

Trampling  one  another ! 
While  we  are  inly  yearning 
At  the  name  of  "  brother ! " 

There's  no  dearth  kindness 

Or  love  among  mankind, 
But  in  darkling  loneness 

Hooded  hearts  grow  blind ! 
Full  of  kindness  tingling, 

Soul  is  shut  from  soul. 
When  they  might  be  mingling 

In  one  kindred  whole  ! 

There's  no  dearth  of  kindness, 

Though  it  be  unspoken, 
From  the  heart  it  buildeth 

Rainbow-smiles  in  token — 


That  there  be  none  so  lowly. 

But  have  some  angel-touch  : 
Yet,  nursing  loves  unholy, 

We  live  for  self  too  much  I 

As  the  wild-rose  bloweth, 

As  runs  the  happy  river, 
Kindness  freely  floweth 

In  the  heart  forever. 
But  if  men  will  hanker 

Ever  for  golden  dust, 
Kinglitst  hearts  will  canker, 

Brightest  spirits  rust. 

There's  no  dearth  of  kindness 

In  this  world  of  ours  ; 
Only  in  our  blindness 

We  gather  thorns  for  flowers  ! 
Oh,  cherish  God's  best  giving, 

Falling  from  above ! 
Life  were  not  worth  living, 

Were  it  not  for  love. 

Gerald  Massky. 


WHAT  I  LIVE  FOR. 

LIVE  for  those  who  love  me, 

Whose  hearts  are  kind  and  true  ; 
For  the  Heaven  that  smiles  above  me, 
And  awaits  my  spirit  too  ; 
For  all  human  ties  that  bind  me, 
For  the  task  by  God  assigned  me, 
For  the  bright  hope:,  left  behind  me. 
And  the  good  that  I  can  do. 

I  live  to  learn  their  story. 
Who've  suffered  for  my  sake  ; 

To  emulate  their  glory, 
And  follow  in  their  wake; 

Bards,  patriots,  martyrs,  sages, 

The  noble  of  all  ages, 

Whose  deeds  crown  history's  pages, 
And  time's  great  volume  make. 

I  live  to  hold  communion 

With  all  that  is  divine  ; 
To  feel  there  is  a  union 

'Twixt  nature's  heart  and  mine ; 
To  profit  by  affliction, 
Reap  truths  from  fields  of  fiction. 
Grow  wiser  from  conviction. 

And  fulfil  each  grand  design. 

I  live  to  hail  that  season, 

By  gifted  minds  foretold, 
When  men  shall  live  by  reason. 

And  not  alone  by  gold ; 
When  man  to  man  united. 
And  every  wrong  thing  righted. 
The  whole  world  shall  be  lighted 
As  Eden  was  of  old. 


282 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


I  live  for  those  who  love  me, 
For  those  who  know  me  true  ; 

For  the  Heaven  that  smiles  above  me, 
And  awaits  my  spirit  too  ; 

For  the  cause  that  lacks  assistance, 

For  the  wrong  that  needs  resistance. 

For  the  future  in  the  distance, 
And  the  good  that  I  can  do. 

G.  LiNN^us  Banks. 


LOOK  ALOFT. 

This  spirited  piece  was  suggested  by  an  anecdote  related  of  a 
ship-boy  who,  growing  dizzy,  was  about  to  fall  from  the  rigging, 
but  was  saved  by  the  mate's  characteristic  exclamation,  "  Look 
aloft,  you  lubber  1 " 

N  the  tempest  of  life,  when  the  wave  and  the  gale 
Are  around  and  above,  if  thy  footing  should  fail, 
If  thine  eye  should  grow  dim,  and  thy  caution 
depart, 
"  Look  aloft ! "  and  be  firm,  and  be  fearless  of  heart. 

If  the  friend  who  embraced  in  prosperity's  glow, 
With  a  smile  for  each  joy  and  a  tear  for  each  woe. 
Should   betray  thee  when  sorrows  like  clouds    are 

arrayed, 
"  Look  aloft  "  to  the  friendship  which  never  shall  fade. 

Should  the  visions  which  hope  spreads  in  light  to  thine 

eye, 
Like  the  tints  of  the  rainbow,  but  brighten  to  fly, 
Then  turn,  and  through  tears  of  repentent  regret, 
"  Look  aloft"  to  the  Sun  that  is  never  to  set. 

Should  they  who  are  dearest,  the  son  of  thy  heart. 
The  wife  of  thy  bossom,  in  sorrow  depart, 
"  Look  aloft,"  from  the  darkness  and  dust  of  the  tomb. 
To  that  soil  where  affection  is  ever  in  bloom. 

And  oh  !  when  death  comes  in  his  terrors,  to  cast 
His  fears  on  the  future,  his  pall  on  the  past. 
In  that  moment  of  darkness,  with  hope  in  thy  heart 
And  a  smile  in  thine  eye,  "  look  aloft," — and  depart. 
Jonathan  Lawrence. 


llJ 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE 

'E  stand  now  on  the  rivers's  brink.  It  may  well 
be  called  the  Concord — the  river  of  peace 
and  quietness — for  it  is  certainly  the  most  un- 
excitable  and  sluggish  stream  that  ever  loi- 
tered imperceptibly  towards  its  eternity,  the  sea.  Posi- 
tively, I  had  lived  three  weeks  beside  it,  before  it  grew 
quite  clear  to  my  perception  which  way  the  current 
flowed.  It  never  has  a  vivacious  aspect,  except  when 
a  north-western  breeze  is  vexing  its  surface,  on  a  sun- 
shiny day. 

From  the  incurable  indolence  of  its  nature,  the  stream 
is  happily  incapable  of  becoming  the  slave  of  human 
ingenuity,  as  is  the  fate  of  so  many  a  wild,  free,  moun- 


tain torrent.  While  all  things  else  are  compelled  to 
subserve  some  useful  purpose,  it  idles  its  sluggish  life 
away  in  lazy  liberty,  without  turning  a  solitary  spindle, 
or  affording  even  water-power  enough  to  grind  the 
com  that  grows  upon  its  banks. 

The  torpor  of  its  movement  allows  it  nowhere  a 
bright,  pebbly  shore,  nor  so  much  as  a  narrow  strip  of 
glistening  sand,  in  any  part  of  its  course.  It  slumbers  . 
between  broad  prairies,  kissing  the  long  meadow-grass, 
and  bathes  the  overhanging  boughs  of  elder-bushes 
and  willows,  or  the  roots  of  elm  and  ash  trees,  and 
clumps  of  maples.  Flags  and  rushes  grow  along  its 
plashy  shore ;  the  yellow  water-lily  spreads  its  broad, 
flat  leaves  on  the  margin ;  and  the  fragrant  white  pond- 
lily  abounds,  generally  selecting  a  position  just  so  far 
from  the  river's  bank  that  it  cannot  be  grasped,  save  at 
the  hazard  of  plunging  in. 

It  is  a  marvel  whence  this  perfect  flower  derives  its 
loveliness  and  perfume,  springing,  as  it  does,  from  the 
black  mud  over  which  the  river  sleeps,  and  where  lurk 
the  slimy  eel,  and  speckled  frog,  and  the  mud-turtle, 
whom  continual  washing  cannot  cleanse.  It  is  the 
same  black  mud  out  of  which  the  yellow  lily  sucks  its 
rank  life  and  noisome  odor.  Thus  we  see,  too,  in  the 
world,  that  some  persons  assimilate  only  what  is  ugly 
and  evil  from  the  same  moral  circumstances  which  sup- 
ply  good  and  beautiful  results — the  fragrance  of  celes- 
tial flowers — to  the  daily  life  of  others. 

The  Old  Manse! — we  had  almost  forgotten  it;  but 
will  return  thither  through  the  orchard.  This  was  set 
out  by  the  last  clergyman,  in  the  decline  of  his  life, 
when  the  neighbors  laughed  at  the  hoary-headed  man 
for  planting  trees  from  which  he  could  have  no  pros- 
pect of  gathering  fruit.  Even  had  that  been  the  case, 
there  was  only  so  much  the  better  motive  for  planting 
them,  in  the  pure  and  unselfish  hope  of  benefiting  his 
successors — an  end  so  seldom  achieved  by  more  am- 
bitious efforts.  But  the  old  minister,  before  reaching 
his  patriarchal  age  of  ninety,  ate  the  apples  from  this 
orchard  during  many  years,  and  added  silver  and 
gold  to  his  annual  stipend  by  disposing  of  the  super- 
fluity. 

It  is  pleasant  to  think  of  him,  walking  among  the 
trees  in  the  quiet  afternoons  of  early  autumn,  and 
picking  up  here  and  there  a  wind-fall ;  while  he  ob- 
serves how  heavily  the  branches  are  weighed  down, 
and  computes  the  number  of  empty  flour-barrels  that 
will  be  filled  by  their  burden.  He  loved  each  tree, 
doubtless,  as  if  it  had  been  his  own  child.  An  orchard 
has  a  relation  to'  mankind,  and  readily  connects  itself 
with  matters  of  the  heart.  The  tree  possesses  a  do- 
mestic character ;  they  have  lost  the  wild  nature  of 
their  forest  kindred,  and  have  grown  humanized  by  re- 
ceiving the  care  of  man,  as  well  as  by  contributing  to 
his  wants. 

I  have  met  with  no  other  such  pleasant  trouble  in  the 
world,  as  that  of  finding  myself,  with  only  the  two  or 
three  mouths  which  it  was  my  privilege  to  feed,  the 
sole  inheritor  of  the  old  clergyman's  wealth  of  fruits. 


SENTIMENT  AND   REFLECTION. 


283 


Throughout  the  summer,  there  were  cherries  and  cur- 
rants ;  and  then  came  autumn,  with  his  immense  bur- 
den of  apples,  dropping  them  continually  from  his 
overladen  shoulders  as  he  trudged  along.  In  the  still- 
est afternoon,  if  I  listened,  the  thump  of  a  great  apple 
was  audible,  falling  without  a  breath  of  wind,  from  the 
mere  necessity  of  perfect  ripeness.  And,  besides,  there 
were  pear-trees,  that  flung  down  bushels  upon  bushels 
of  heavy  pears  ;  and  peach-trees,  which,  in  a  good  year, 
tormented  me  with  peaches,  neither  to  be  eaten  nor 
kept,  nor,  without  labor  and  perplexity,  to  be  given 
away. 

The  idea  of  an  infinite  generosity  and  inexhaustible 
bounty,  on  the  part  of  our  mother  nature,  was  well 
worth  obtaining  through  such  cares  as  these.  That 
feeling  can  be  enjoyed  in  perfection  not  only  by  the 
natives  of  summer  islands,  where  the  bread-fruit,  the 
cocoa,  the  palm,  and  the  orange  grow  spontaneously, 
and  hold  forth  the  ever-ready  meal ;  but,  likewise, 
almost  as  well,  by  a  man  long  habituated  to  city  life, 
who  plunges  into  such  a  solitude  as  that  of  the  Old 
Manse,  where  he  plucks  the  fruit  of  trees  that  he  did 
not  plant ;  and  which,  therefore,  to  my  heterodox  taste, 
bear  the  closer  resemblance  to  those  that  grew  in  Eden. 

Not  that  it  can  be  disputed  that  the  light  toil  requi- 
site to  cultivate  a  moderately  sized  garden  imparts  such 
zest  to  kitchen  vegetables  as  is  never  found  in  those  of 
the  market-gardener.  Childless  men,  if  they  would 
know  something  of  tlie  bliss  of  paternity,  should  plant 
a  seed — be  it  squash,  bean,  Indian  corn,  or  perhaps  a 
mere  flower,  or  worthless  weed — should  plant  it  with 
their  own  hands,  and  nurse  it  from  infancy  to  maturity, 
altogether  by  their  own  care.  If  there  be  not  too  many 
of  them,  each  individual  plant  becomes  an  object  of 
separate  interest. 

My  garden,  tliat  skirted  the  avenue  of  the  Manse  was 
of  precisely  the  right  extent.  An  hour  or  two  of  morn- 
ing labor  was  all  that  it  required.  But  I  used  to  visit 
and  revisit  it  a  dozen  times  a  day,  and  stand  in  deep 
contemplation  over  my  vegetable  progeny,  with  a  love 
that  nobody  could  share  or  conceive  of,  who  had  never 
taken  part  in  the  process  of  creation.  It  was  one  of  the 
most  bewitching  sights  in  the  world  to  observe  a  hill  of 
beans  thrusting  aside  the  soil,  or  a  row  of  early  peas 
just  peeping  forth  sufficiently  to  trace  a  line  of  delicate 

green. 

Nathaniel  Hawthorne, 


THE  DEATH  OF  ABSALOM. 

"HE  waters  slept.    Night's  silvery  veil  hung  low 
On  Jordan's  bosom,  and  the  eddies  curled 
Their  glassy  rings  beneath  it,  like  the  still, 
"^       Unbroken  beating  of  the  sleeper's  pulse. 
The  reeds  bent  down  the  stream  ;  the  willow  leaves, 
With  a  soft  cheek  upon  the  lulling  tide, 
Forgot  the  lifting  winds  ;  and  the  long  stems. 
Whose  flowers  the  water,  like  a  gentle  nurse. 
Bears  on  its  bosom,  quietly  gave  way. 


And  leaned,  in  graceful  attitudes,  to  rest. 
How  strikingly  the  course  of  nature  tells, 
By  its  light  heed  of  human  suffering. 
That  it  was  fashioned  for  a  happier  world  ! 

King  David's  limbs  were  weary.     He  had  fled 
From  far  Jerusalem  ;  and  now  he  stood. 
With  his  faint  people,  for  a  little  rest 
Upon  the  shores  of  Jordan.    The  light  wind 
Of  morn  was  stirring,  and  he  bared  his  brow 
To  its  refreshing  breath  ;  for  he  had  worn 
The  mourner's  covering,  and  he  had  not  felt 
That  he  could  see  his  people  until  now. 
They  gathered  round  him  on  the  fresh  green  bank. 
And  spoke  their  kindly  words  ;  and,  as  the  sun 
Rose  up  in  heaven,  he  knelt  among  them  there, 
And  bowed  his  head  upon  his  hands  to  pray. 
Oh  !  when  the  heart  is  full — when  bitter  thoughts 
Come  crowding  thickly  up  for  utterance, 
And  the  poor  common  words  of  courtesy 
Are  such  an  empty  mockery — how  much 
The  bursting  heart  may  pour  itself  in  prayer ! 
He  prayed  for  Israel — and  his  voice  went  up 
Strong  and  fervently.     He  prayed  for  those 
Whose  love  had  been  his  shield — and  his  deep  tones 
Grew  tremulous.     But,  oh !  for  Absalom — 
For  his  estranged,  misguided  Absalom — 
The  proud,  bright  being,  who  had  burst  away 
In  all  his  princely  beauty,  to  defy 
The  heart  that  cherished  him — for  him  he  poured, 
In  agony  that  would  not  be  controlled. 
Strong  supplication,  and  forgave  him  there. 
Before  his  God,  for  his  deep  sinfulness. 

The  pall  was  settled.     He  who  slept  beneath 
Was  straightened  for  the  grave ;  and,  as  the  folds 
Sank  to  the  still  proportions,  they  betrayed 
The  matchless  symmetry  of  Absalom. 
His  hair  was  yet  unshorn,  and  silken  curls 
Were  floating  round  the  tassels  as  they  swayed 
To  the  admitted  air,  as  glossy  now 
As  when,  in  hours  of  gentle  dalliance,  bathing 
The  snowy  fingers  of  Judaea's  daughters. 
His  helm  was  at  his  feet ;  his  banner,  soiled 
With  trailing  through  Jerusalem,  was  laid. 
Reversed,  beside  him  ;  and  the  jeweled  hilt, 
Whose  diamonds  lit  the  passage  of  his  blade, 
Rested,  like  mocker>',  on  his  covered  brow. 
The  soldiers  of  the  king  trod  to  and  fro. 
Clad  in  the  garb  of  battle ;  and  their  chief, 
The  mighty  Joab,  stood  beside  the  bier, 
And  gazed  upon  the  dark  pall  steadfastly. 
As  if  he  feared  the  slumberer  might  stir. 
A  slow  step  startled  him.     He  grasped  his  blade 
As  if  a  trumpet  rang ;  but  the  bent  form 
Of  David  entered,  and  he  gave  command. 
In  a  low  tone,  to  his  few  followers. 
And  left  him  with  his  dead.     The  king  stood  still 
Till  the  last  echo  died  ;  then,  throwing  off" 
The  sackcloth  from  his  brow,  and  laying  back 


284 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


The  pall  from  the  still  features  of  his  child, 
He  bowed  his  head  upon  him,  and  broke  forth 
In  the  resistless  eloquence  of  woe : — 

"Alas  !  my  noble  boy !  that  thou  shouldst  die  ! 

Thou,  who  wert  made  so  beautifully  fair ! 
That  death  should  settle  in  thy  glorious  eye. 

And  leave  his  stillness  in  this  clustering  hair ! 
How  could  he  mark  thee  for  the  silent  tomb ! 
My  proud  boy,  Absalom ! 

"Cold  is  thy  brow,  my  son ;  and  I  am  chill. 
As  to  my  bosom  I  have  tried  to  press  thee ! 

How  was  I  wont  to  feel  my  pulses  thrill, 

Like  a  rich  harp-string,  yearning  to  caress  thee. 

And  hear  thy  sweet  '  My  father  ! '  from  these  dumb 
And  cold  lips,  Absalom ! 

"  But  death  is  on  thee.     I  shall  hear  the  gush 
Of  music,  and  the  voices  of  the  young ; 

And  life  will  peiss  me  in  the  mantling  blush, 
And  the  dark  tresses  to  the  soft  winds  flung  ; 

But  thou  no  more,  with  thy  sweet  voice,  shalt  come 
To  meet  me,  Absalom ! 

"And  oh !  when  I  am  stricken,  and  my  heart. 
Like  a  bruised  reed,  is  waiting  to  be  broken, 

How  will  its  love  for  thee,  as  I  depart. 
Yearn  for  thine  ear  to  drink  its  last  deep  token ! 

It  were  so  sweet,  amid  death's  gathering  gloom, 
To  see  thee,  Absalom  ! 

"  And  now,  farewell !     'Tis  hard  to  give  thee  up, 
With  death  so  like  a  gentle  slumber  on  thee ; — 

And  thy  dark  sin !— Oh  !  I  could  drink  the  cup. 
If  from  this  woe  its  bitterness  had  won  thee. 

May  God  have  called  thee,  like  a  wanderer,  home, 
My  lost  boy,  Absalom  !" 

He  covered  up  his  face,  and  bowed  himself 
A  moment  on  his  child  ;  then,  giving  him 
A  look  of  melting  tenderness,  he  clasped 
His  hands  convulsively,  as  if  in  prayer ; 
And,  as  if  strength  were  given  him  from  God, 
He  rose  up  calmly,  and  composed  the  pall 
Firmly  and  decently — and  left  him  there — 
As  if  his  rest  had  been  a  breathing  sleep. 

Nathaniel  Parker  Willis. 


CLAUDE    MELNOTTE'S   APOLOGY  AND 
DEFENSE. 

FROM   "the   lady  of   LYONS." 

PAULINE,  by  pride 
Angels  have  fallen  ere  thy  time  ;  by  pride — 
That  sole  alloy  of  thy  most  lovely  mould — 
The  evil  spirit  of  a  bitter  love 
And  a  revengeful  heart,  had  power  upon  thee. 
From  my  first  years  my  soul  was  filled  with  thee  • 
I  saw  thee  midst  the  flowers  the  lowly  boy 
Tended,  unmarked  by  thee — a  spirit  of  bloom, 
And  joy  and  freshness,  as  spring  itself 
Were  made  a  living  thing,  and  wore  thy  shape  ! 


I  saw  thee,  and  the  passionate  heart  of  man 

Entered  the  breast  of  the  wild-dreaming  boy  ; 

And  from  that  hour  I  grew— what  to  the  last 

I  shall  be— thine  adorer  !     Well,  this  love. 

Vain,  frantic— guilty,  if  thou  wilt — became 

A  fountain  of  ambition  and  bright  hope  ; 

I  thought  of  tales  that  by  the  winter  hearth 

Old  gossips  tell — how  maidens  sprung  from  kings 

Have  stooped  from  their  high  sphere  ;  how  love,  like 

death, 
Levels  all  ranks,  and  lays  the  shepherd's  crook 
Beside  the  scepter.     Thus  I  made  my  home 
In  the  soft  palace  of  a  fairy  future  ! 
My  father  died ;  and  I,  the  peasant-born. 
Was  my  own  lord.     Then  did  I  seek  to  rise 
Out  of  the  prison  of  my  mean  estate  ; 
And,  with  such  jewels  as  the  exploring  mind 
Brings  from  the  caves  of  knowledge,  buy  my  ransom 
From  those  twin  jailers  of  the  daring  heart — 
Low  birth  and  iron  fortune.     Thy  bright  image, 
Glassed  in  my  soul,  took  all  the  hues  of  glory, 
And  lured  me  on  to  those  inspiring  toils 
By  which  man  masters  men  !     For  thee,  I  grew 
A  midnight  student  o'er  the  dreams  of  sages  ! 
For  thee,  I  sought  to  borrow  from  each  grace 
And  every  muse  such  attributes  as  lend 
Ideal  charms  to  love.     I  thought  of  thee, 
And  passion  taught  me  poesy — of  thee, 
And  on  the  painter's  canvas  grew  the  life 
Of  beauty  ! — Art  became  the  shadow 
Of  the  dear  starlight  of  thy  haunting  eyes  ! 
Men  called  me  vain — some,  mad — I  heeded  not ; 
But  still  toiled  on,  hoped  on — for  it  was  sweet, 
If  not  to  win,  to  feel  more  worthy,  thee  ! 

At  last,  in  one  mad  hour,  I  dared  to  pour 
The  thoughts  that  burst  their  channels  into  song, 
And  sent  them  to  thee — such  a  tribute,  lady. 
As  beauty  rarely  scorns,  even  from  the  meanest. 
The  name — appended  by  the  burning  heart 
That  longed  to  show  its  idol  what  bright  things 
It  had  created — yea,  the  enthusiast's  name. 
That  should  have  been  thy  triumph,  was  thy  scorn  ' 
That  very  hour — when  passion,  turned  to  wrath. 
Resembled  hatred  most ;  when  thy  disdain 
Made  my  whole  soul  a  chaos — in  that  hour 
The  tempters  found  me  a  revengeful  tool 
For  their  revenge  !  Thou  hadst  trampled  on  the  worm- 
It  turned,  and  stung  thee  ! 

Lord  Lvtton. 


THE  SHADED  WATER. 

HEN  that  my  mood  is  sad,  and  in  the  noise 
And  bustle  of  the  crowd  I  feel  rebuke, 
I  turn  my  footsteps  from  its  hollow  joys 
And  sit  me  down  beside  this  little  brook  , 
The  waters  have  a  music  to  mine  ear 
It  glads  me  much  to  hear. 


itJ 


SENTIMENT  AND    REFLECTION. 


285 


It  is  .1  quiet  glen,  as  you  may  see, 

Shut  in  from  all  intrusion  by  the  trees. 
That  spread  their  giant  branches,  broad  and  free. 

The  silent  growth  of  many  centuries ; 
And  make  a  hallowed  time  for  hapless  moods, 
A  Sabbath  of  the  woods. 

Few  know  its  quiet  shelter — none,  like  me, 

Do  seek  it  out  with  such  a  fond  desire. 
Poring  in  idlesse  mood  on  flower  and  tree, 

And  listening  as  the  voiceless  leaves  respire — 
When  the  far-traveling  breeze,  done  wandering. 
Rests  here  his  weary  wing. 

And  all  the  day,  with  fancies  ever  new, 

And  sweet  companions  from  their  boundless   care 

Of  merry  elves  bespangled  all  with  dew. 
Fantastic  creatures  of  the  old-time  lore, 

Watching  their  wild  but  unobtrusive  play, 

I  fling  the  hours  away. 

A  gracious  couch — the  root  of  an  old  oak 
Whose  branches  yield  it  moss  and  canopy — 

Is  mine,  and,  so  it  be  from  woodman's  stroke 
Secure,  shall  never  be  resigned  by  me  ; 

It  hangs  above  the  stream  that  idly  flies, 

Heedless  of  any  eyes. 

There,  with  eye  sometimes  shut,  but  upward  bent, 
Sweetly  I  muse  through  many  a  quiet  hour, 

While  every  sense  on  earnest  mission  sent. 

Returns,  thought-laden  back  with  bloom  and  flower ; 

Pursuing,  though  rebuked  by  those  who  moil, 

A  profitable  toil. 

And  still  the  waters  trickling  at  my  feet 
Wind  on  their  way  with  gentlest  melody. 

Yielding  sweet  music,  which  the  leaves  repeat, 
Above  them,  to  the  gay  breeze  gliding  by — 

Yet  not  so  rudely  as  to  send  one  sound 

Through  the  thick  copse  around. 

Sometimes  a  brighter  cloud  than  all  the  rest 

Hangs  o'er  the  archway  opening  through  the  trees, 

Breaking  the  spell  that,  like  a  slumber,  pressed 
On  my  worn  spirit  its  sweet  luxuries — 

And,  with  awakened  vision  upward  bent, 

I  watch  the  firmament. 

How  like — its  sure  and  undisturbed  retreat, 
Life's  sanctuary  at  last,  secure  from  storm — 

To  the  pure  waters  trickling  at  my  feet, 
The  bending  trees  that  overshade  my  form>. 

So  far  as  sweetest  things  of  earth  may  seem 

Like  those  of  which  we  dream. 

Such,  to  my  mind,  is  the  philosophy 

The  young  bird  teaches,  who,  with  sudden  flight 
Sails  far  into  the  blue  that  spreads  on  high. 

Until  I  lose  him  from  my  straining  sight — 
With  a  most  lofty  discontent  to  fly, 
Upward,  from  earth  to  sky. 

William  Gilmore  Simms. 


COMING  AND  GOING 

NCE  came  to  our  fields  a  pair  of  birds  that  had 
never  built  a  nest  nor  seen  a  winter.  O,  how 
beautiful  was  everything !  Tlie  fields  were 
full  of  flowers,  and  the  grass  was  growing 
tall,  and  the  bees  were  humming  everywhere.  Then 
one  of  the  birds  fell  to  singing  ;  and  the  other  bird  said, 
"  Who  told  you  to  sing?"  And  he  answered,  "The 
flowers  told  me,  and  the  bees  told  me,  and  the  winds 
and  leaves  told  me,  and  the  blue  sky  told  me,  and  you 
told  me  to  sing."  Then  his  mate  answered,  "When 
did  I  tell  you  to  sing?"  And  he  said,  "  Every  time  you 
brought  in  tender  grass  for  the  nest,  and  every  time 
soft  wings  fluttered  off  again  for  hair  and  feathers  to 
line  the  nest."  Then  his  mate  said,  "What  are  you 
singing  about?"  And  he  answered,  "I  am  singing 
about  everythmg  and  nothing.  It  is  because  I  am  so 
happy  that  I  sing." 

By  and  by,  five  little  speckled  eggs  were  in  the  nest ; 
and  his  mate  said,  "  Is  there  anything  in  all  the  world 
as  pretty  as  my  eggs? "  Then  they  both  looked  down 
on  some  people  that  were  passing  by,  and  pitied  them 
because  they  were  not  birds,  and  had  no  nests  with 
eggs  in  them.  Then  the  father-bird  sang  a  melancholy 
song  because  he  pitied  folks  that  had  no  nests,  but  had 
to  live  in  houses. 

In  a  week  or  two,  one  day,  when  the  father-bird  came 
home,  the  mother-bird  said,  "  O,  what  do  you  think 
has  happened  ?  "  "What?"  "  One  of  my  eggs  has 
been  peeping  and  moving ! "  Pretty  soon  another  egg 
moved  under  her  feathers,  and  then  another,  and  an- 
other, till  five  little  birds  were  born. 

Now  the  father-bird  sung  louder  and  louder  than 
ever.  The  mother-bird,  too,  wanted  to  sing ;  but  she 
had  no  time,  so  she  turned  her  song  into  work.  So 
hungry  were  these  little  birds,  that  it  kept  both  parents 
busy  feeding  them.  Away  each  one  flew.  The  mo- 
ment the  little  birds  heard  their  wings  fluttering  again 
among  the  leaves,  five  yellow  mouths  flew  open  so  wide 
that  nothing  could  be  seen  but  five  yellow  mouths. 

"Can  anybody  be  happier?"  said  the  father-bird 
to  the  mother-bird.  "  We  will  live  in  this  tree  always  ; 
for  there  is  no  sorrow  here.  It  is  a  tree  that  always 
bears  joy." 

The  very  next  day  one  of  the  birds  dropped  out  of 
the  nest,  and  a  cat  ate  it  up  in  a  minute,  and  only  four 
remained  ;  and  the  parent-birds  were  very  sad,  and 
there  was  no  song  all  that  day,  nor  the  next.  Soon 
the  little  birds  were  big  enough  to  fly  ;  and  great  was 
their  parents'  joy  to  see  them  leave  the  nest,  and  sit 
crumpled  up  upon  the  branches.  There  was  then  a 
great  time.  One  would  have  thought  the  two  old 
birds  were  two  French  dancing-masters,  talking  and 
chattering,  and  scolding  the  little  birds  to  make  them 
go  alone.  The  first  bird  that  tried  flew  from  one 
branch  to  another,  and  the  parents  praised  him  ;  and 
the  other  little  birds  wondered  how  he  did  it.  And 
he  was  so  vain  of  it  that  he  tried  again,  and  fiew  and 


286 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


flew,  and  couldn't  stop  flying,  till  he  fell  plump  down 
by  the  house-door  ;  and  then  a  little  boy  caught  him 
and  carried  him  into  the  house,  and  only  three  birds 
were  left.  Then  the  old  birds  thought  that  the  sun 
was  not  as  bright  as  it  used  to  be,  and  they  did  not 
sing  as  often. 

In  a  little  time  the  other  birds  had  learned  to  use 
their  wings  ;  and  they  flew  away  and  away,  and  found 
their  own  food,  and  made  their  own  beds  ;  and  their 
parents  never  saw  them  any  more. 

Then  the  old  birds  sat  silent,  and  looked  at  each 
other  a  long  while. 

At  last  the  wife-bird  said — 

' '  Why  don't  you  sing  ? '  * 

And  he  answered — 

"  I  can't  sing :  I  can  only  think  and  think." 

"  What  are  you  thinking  of  ?  " 

"  I  am  thinking  how  everything  changes.  The 
leaves  are  falling  down  from  off"  this  tree,  and  soon 
there  will  be  no  roof  over  our  heads  ;  the  flowers  are 
all  gone,  or  going ;  last  night  there  was  a  frost ;  almost 
all  the  birds  are  flown  away,  and  I  am  very  uneasy. 
Something  calls  me,  and  I  feel  restless  as  if  I  would 
fly  far  away." 

"  Let  us  fly  away  together !  " 

Then  they  rose  silently  ;  and,  lifting  themselves  far 
up  in  the  air,  they  looked  to  the  north  :  far  away  they 
saw  the  snow  coming.  They  looked  to  the  south  : 
there  they  saw  green  leaves.  A\)  day  they  flew,  and 
all  night  they  flew  and  flew,  till  they  found  a  land 
where  there  was  no  winter;  where  there  was  summer 
all  the  time;  where  flowers  always  blossom,  and 
birds  always  sing. 

But  the  birds  that  staid  behind  found  the  days 
shorter,  the  nights  longer,  and  the  weather  colder. 
Many  of  them  died  of  cold  ;  others  crept  into  crevices 
and  holes,  and  lay  torpid.  Then  it  was  plain  that  it 
was  better  to  go  than  to  stay. 

Henry  Ward  Beecher. 


ffi 


THE    PORTRAIT. 

IDNIGHTpast!     Not  a  sound  of  aught 

Through  the  silent  house,  but  the  wind  at 
his  prayers, 
I  sat  by  the  dying  fire,  and  thought 
Of  the  dear  dead  woman  up  stairs. 


A  night  of  tears  !  for  the  gusty  rain 

Had  ceased,  but  the  eaves  were  dripping  yet ; 
And  the  moon  looked  forth,  as  though  in  pain, 

With  her  face  all  white  and  wet. 

Nobody  with  me  my  watch  to  keep 
But  the  friend  of  my  bosom,  the  man  I  love  : 

And  grief  had  sent  him  fast  to  sleep 
In  the  chamber  up  above. 

Nobody  else  in  the  country  place 
All  round,  that  knew  of  my  loss  beside. 


But  the  good  young  priest  with  the  Raphael-face, 
Who  confessed  her  when  she  died. 

That  good  young  priest  is  of  gentle  nerve. 
And  my  grief  had  moved  him  beyond  control, 

For  his  lips  grew  white  as  I  could  observe, 
When  he  speeded  her  parting  soul. 

I  sat  by  the  dreary  hearth  alone  ; 

I  thought  of  the  pleasant  days  of  yore ; 
I  said,  "  The  staff"  of  my  life  is  gone, 

The  woman  I  loved  is  no  more. 

"  On  her  cold  dead  bosom  my  portrait  lies. 
Which  next  to  her  heart  she  used  to  wear — 

Haunting  it  o'er  with  her  tender  eyes 
When  my  own  face  was  not  there. 

"  It  is  set  all  around  with  rubies  red, 
And  pearls  which  a  peri  might  have  kept ; 

For  each  ruby  there  my  heart  hath  bled. 
For  each  pearl  my  eyes  have  wept." 

And  I  said,  "  The  thing  is  precious  to  me  ; 

They  will  bury  her  soon  in  the  churchyard  clay  ; 
It  lies  on  her  heart,  and  lost  must  be 

If  I  do  not  take  it  away." 

I  lighted  my  lamp  at  the  dying  flame, 
And  crept  up  the  stairs  that  creaked  for  fright, 

Till  into  the  chamber  of  death  I  came, 
Where  she  lay  all  in  white. 

The  moon  shone  over  her  winding  sheet ; 

There  stark  she  lay  on  her  carven  bed  ; 
Seven  burning  tapers  about  her  feet. 

And  seven  about  her  head. 

As  I  stretched  my  hand  I  held  my  breath  ; 

I  turned  as  I  drew  the  curtains  apart : 
I  dared  not  look  on  the  face  of  death : 

I  knew  where  to  find  her  heart. 

I  thought  at  first  as  my  touch  fell  there 
It  had  warmed  that  heart  to  life,  with  love  ; 

For  the  thing  I  touched  was  warm,  I  swear, 
And  I  could  feel  it  move. 

'Twas  the  hand  of  a  man  that  was  moving  slow 

O'er  the  heart  of  the  dead — from  the  other  side — 
And  at  once  the  sweat  broke  over  my  brow, 
"Who  is  robbing  the  corpse?  "  I  cried. 

Opposite  me,  by  the  taper's  light. 
The  friend  of  my  bosom,  the  man  I  loved, 

Stood  over  the  corpse  and  all  as  white. 
And  neither  of  us  moved. 

"  What  do  you  here  my  friend  ?  "    The  man 
Looked  first  at  me,  and  then  at  the  dead. 
"  There  is  a  portrait  here,"  he  began : 
"  There  is.     It  is  mine,"  I  said. 


SENTIMENT  AND   REFLECTION. 


287 


Said  tlie  friend  of  my  bosom,  "  Yours  no  doubt 

The  portrait  was,  till  a  month  ago, 
When  this  suffering  angel  took  that  out, 

And  placed  mine  there,  I  know." 

"This  woman,  she  loved  me  well,"  said  I. 

"  A  month  ago,"  said  my  friend  to  me  : 
"And  in  your  throat,"  I  groaned,  "  you  lie  !" 

He  answered,  "  Let  us  see." 

"  Enough  !  let  the  dead  decide  ; 

And  whosesoever  the  portrait  prove. 
His  shall  it  be,  when  the  cause  is  tried — 

Where  death  is  arraigned  by  love." 

We  found  the  portrait  there  in  its  place, 

We  opened  it  by  the  tapers'  shine. 
The  gems  were  all  unchanged  ;  the  face 

Was — neither  his  nor  mine. 

"  One  nail  drives  out  another,  at  last ! 

The  face  of  the  portrait  there,"  I  cried, 
"  Is  our  friend's  the  Raphael-faced  young  priest 

Who  confessed  her  when  she  died." 

The  setting  is  all  of  rubies  red. 

And  pearls  which  a  peri  might  have  kept — 
For  each  ruby  she  my  heart  hath  bled. 

For  each  pearl  my  eyes  have  wept. 

Robert  Bulwer  Lytton  [Owen  Meredith). 

THE  HERO  OF  THE  DUTCH  REPUBLIC. 

O  man— not  even  Washington — has  ever  been 
inspired  by  a  purer  patriotism  than  that  of 
William  of  Orange.  Whether  originally  of  a 
timid  temperament  or  not,  he  was  certainly 
possessed  of  perfect  courage  at  last.  In  siege  and* 
battle,  in  the  deadly  air  of  pestilential  cities,  in  the  long 
exhaustion  of  mind  and  body  which  comes  from  unduly 
protracted  labor  and  anxiety,  amid  the  countless  con- 
spiracies of  assassins,  he  was  daily  exposed  to  death  in 
every  shape.  Within  two  years  five  different  attempts 
against  his  life  had  been  discovered.  Rank  and  for- 
tune were  offered  to  any  malefactor  who  would  com- 
pass the  murder.  He  had  already  been  shot  through 
the  head,  and  almost  mortally  wounded.  He  went 
through  life  bearing  the  load  of  a  people's  sorrows  upon 
his  shoulders  with  a  smiling  face.  Their  name  was  the 
last  word  upon  his  lips,  save  the  simple  affirmative  with 
which  the  soldier  who  had  been  battling  for  the  right 
all  his  lifetime  commended  his  soul,  in  dying,  "to  the 
great  Captain,  Christ."  The  people  were  grateful  and 
affectionate,  for  they  trusted  the  character  of  their 
"  Father  William,"  and  not  all  the  clouds  which  cal- 
umny could  collect  ever  dimmed  to  their  eyes  the 
radiance  of  that  lofty  mind  to  which  they  were  accus- 
tomed, in  their  darkest  calamities,  to  look  for  light. 
As  long  as  he  lived  he  was  the  guiding-star  of  a  whole 
brave  nation,  and  when  he  died  the  little  children  cried 

in  the  streets. 

John  Lothrop  Motley. 


f|l 


A  MOTHER'S  WAIL 

Y  babe  !  my  tiny  babe !  my  only  babe ! 
My  single  rose-bud  in  a  crown  of  thorns  1 
My  lamp  that  in  that  narrow  hut  of  life, 
Whence  I  looked  forth  upon  a  night  of  storm, 
Burned  with  the  luster  of  the  moon  and  stars  J 


My  babe !  my  tiny  babe !  my  only  babe ! 
Behold,  the  bud  is  gone  !  the  thorns  remain ! 
My  lamp  hath  fallen  from  its  niche — ah,  me  ! 
Earth  drinks  the  fragrant  flame,  and  I  am  left 
Forever  and  forever  in  the  dark ! 

My  babe  !  my  babe  !  my  own  and  only  babe  ! 
Where  art  thou  now  ?    If  somewhere  in  the  sky 
An  angel  hold  thee  in  his  radiant  arms, 
I  challenge  him  to  clasp  thy  tender  form 
With  half  the  fervor  of  a  mother's  love  ! 

Forgive  me.  Lord  !  forgive  my  reckless  grief! 
Forgive  me  that  this  rebel,  selfish  heart 
Would  almost  make  me  jealous  for  my  child, 
Though  Thy  own  lap  enthroned  him.     Lord,  thou  hast 
So  many  such ! — I  have — ah  !  had — but  one ! 

O  yet  once  more,  my  babe,  to  hear  thy  cry  ! 
— Yet  once  more,  my  babe,  to  see  thy  smile  1 

0  yet  once  more  to  feel  against  my  breast 

Those  cool,  soft  hands,  that  warm,  wet,  eager  mouth, 
With  the  sweet  sharpness  of  its  budding  pearls  ! 

But  it  must  never,  never  more  be  mine 
To  mark  the  growing  meaning  in  thine  eyes, 
To -watch  thy  soul  unfolding  leaf  by  leaf. 
Or  catch,  with  ever  fresh  surprise  and  joy. 
Thy  dawning  recognitions  of  the  world  ! 

Three  different  shadows  of  thyself,  my  babe, 
Change  with  each  other  while  I  weep.     The  first. 
The  sweetest,  yet  the  not  least  fraught  with  pain. 
Clings  like  my  living  boy  around  my  neck. 
Or  purs  and  murmurs  softly  at  my  feet ! 

Another  is  a  little  mound  of  earth  ; 

That  comes  the  oftenest,  darling  !     In  my  dreams, 

1  see  it  beaten  by  the  midnight  rain, 

Or  chilled  beneath  the  moon.     Ah  !  what  a  couch 
For  that  which  I  have  shielded  from  a  breath 
That  would  not  stir  the  violets  on  thy  grave  ! 

The  third,  my  precious  babe  !  the  third,  O  Lord  I 
Is  a  fair  cherub  face  beyond  the  stars, 
Wearing  the  roses  of  a  mystic  bliss, 
Yet  sometimes  not  unsaddened  by  a  glance 
Turned  earthward  on  a  mother  in  her  woe  ! 

This  is  the  vision,  Lord,  that  I  would  keep 
Before  me  always.     But,  alas !  as  yet, 
It  is  the  dimmest  and  the  rarest  too  ! 
O  touch  my  sight,  or  break  the  cloudy  bars 
That  hide  it,  lest  I  madden  where  I  kneel ! 

Henry  Timrod. 


288 


CROWN   JEWELS. 


A  COMMON  THOUGHT. 

This  little  poem,  written  several  years  before  the  poet's  death, 
was  prophetic.  He  died  at  the  very  hour  here  predicted.  The 
wliisper,  "  He  is  gone,"  went  forth  as  the  day  was  purpling  in  the 
zenith,  on  that  October  morning  of  1867. 

'OMEWHERE  on  this  earthly  planet 

In  the  dust  of  flowers  to  be, 

In  the  dew-drop  in  the  sunshine, 

Sleeps  a  solemn  day  for  me. 

At  this  wakeful  hour  of  midnight 

I  behold  it  dawn  in  mist, 
And  I  hear  a  sound  of  sobbing 

Through  the  darkness — hist !  O,  hist ! 

In  a  dim  and  musky  chamber, 

I  am  breathing  life  away ; 
Someone  draws  a  curtain  softly 

And  I  watch  the  broadening  day. 

As  it  purples  in  the  zenith. 

As  it  brightens  on  the  lawn, 
There's  a  hush  of  death  about  me, 

And  a  whisper,  "  He  is  gone  !" 

Henry  Timrod. 


GOOD-BY,  PROUD  WORLD! 

,  OOD-BY,  proud  world  !    I'm  going  home  ; 
Thou  art  not  my  friend  ;  I  am  not  thine; 
Too  long  through  weary  clouds  I  roam — 
A  river  ark  on  the  ocean  brine, 
Too  long  I  am  tossed  like  the  driven  foam  ; 
But  now,  proud  world,  I'm  going  home. 

Good-by  to  flattery's  fawning  face  ; 
To  grandeur  with  his  wise  grimace  ; 
To  upstart  wealth's  averted  eye  ; 
To  supple  office,  low  and  high  ; 
To  crowded  halls,  to  court  and  street. 
To  frozen  hearts,  and  hasting  feet, 
To  those  who  go,  and  those  who  come, 
Good-by,  proud  world,  I'm  going  home. 

I  go  to  seek  my  own  hearth-stone, 
Bosomed  in  yon  green  hills  alone  ; 
A  secret  lodge  in  a  pleasant  land. 
Whose  groves  the  frolic  fairies  planned, 
Where  arches  green,  the  livelong  day, 
Echo  the  blackbird's  roundelay. 
And  evil  men  have  never  trod, 
A  spot  that  is  sacred  to  thought  and  God. 

O,  when  I  am  safe  in  my  sylvan  home, 
I  mock  at  the  pride  of  Greece  and  Rome  ; 
And  when  I  am  stretched  beneath  the  pines, 
Where  the  evening  star  so  holy  shines, 
I  laugh  at  the  lore  and  the  pride  of  man, 
At  the  sophist  schools,  and  the  learned  clan  ; 
For  what  are  they  all  in  their  high  conceit, 
When  man  in  the  bush  with  God  may  meet  ? 
Ralph  Waldo  Emerson. 


NATURE'S  ARTISTIC  POWER. 

"*^  ATURE  has  a  thousand  ways  and  means  o» 
y^t  rising  above  herself,  but  incomparably  the  no- 
J  Z^  blest  manifestations  of  her  capability  of  color 
are  in  the  sunsets  among  the  high  clouds. 
I  speak  especially  of  the  moment  before  the  sun  sinks, 
when  his  light  turns  pure  rose-color,  and  when  this 
light  falls  upon  a  zenith  covered  with  countless  cloud- 
forms  of  inconceivable  delicacy,  threads  and  flakes  of 
vapor,  which  would  in  common  daylight  be  pure 
snow-white,  and  which  give  therefore  fair  field  to  the 
tone  of  light.  There  is  then  no  limit  to  the  multitude, 
and  no  check  to  the  intensity,  of  the  hues  assumed. 
The  whole  sky  from  the  zenith  to  the  horizon  becomes 
one  molten,  mantling  sea  of  color  and  fire ;  every 
black  bar  turns  into  massy  gold,  every  ripple  and 
wave  into  unsullied,  shadowless  crimson,  and  purple, 
and  scarlet,  and  colors  for  which  there  are  no  words 
in  language  and  no  ideas  in  the  mind — things  which 
can  only  be  conceived  while  they  are  visible — the  in- 
tense hollow  blue  of  the  upper  sky  melting  through  it 
all — showing  here  deep  and  pure  and  lightless,  there 
modulated  by  the  filmy,  formless  body  of  the  trans- 
parent vapor,  till  it  is  lost  imperceptibly  in  its  crimson 
and  gold. 

John  Ruskin. 

THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE. 

WEET  Auburn  !  loveliest  village  of  the  plain. 
Where  health  and  plenty  cheered  the  labor- 
ing swain. 
Where  smiling  spring  its  earliest  visit  paid, 
And  parting  summer's  lingering  blooms  delayed  ; 
Dear  lovely  bowers  of  innocence  and  ease, 
Seats  of  my  youth,  where  every  sport  could  please ; 
How  often  have  I  loitered  o'er  thy  green, 
Where  humble  happiness  endeared  each  scene  ; 
How  often  have  I  paused  on  every  charm — 
The  sheltered  cot,  the  cultivated  farm, 
The  never-failing  brook,  the  busy  mill, 
The  decent  church  that  topped  the  neighboring  hill, 
The  hawthome  bush,  with  seats  beneath  the  shade, 
For  talking  age  and  whispering  lovers  made  1 
How  often  have  I  blest  the  coming  day. 
When  toil  remitting  lent  its  turn  to  play. 
And  all  the  village  train,  from  labor  free, 
Led  up  their  sports  beneath  the  spreading  tree. 
While  many  a  pastime  circled  in  the  shade. 
The  young  contending  as  the  old  surveyed ; 
And  many  a  gambol  frolicked  o'er  the  ground. 
And  sleights  of  art  and  feats  of  strength  went  round ; 
And  still  as  each  repeated  pleasure  tired, 
Succeeding  sports  the  mirthful  band  inspired. 
The  dancing  pair  that  simply  sought  renown, 
By  holding  out,  to  tire  each  other  down  ; 
The  swain  mistrustless  of  his  smutted  face. 
While  secret  laughter  tittered  round  the  place  ; 


SENTIMENT  AND   REFLECTION. 


289 


The  bashful  virgin's  sidelong  looks  of  love, 

The  matron's  glance  that  would  those  looks  reprove — 

These  were  thy   charms,  sweet  village !    sports  like 

these, 
With  sweet  succession,  taught  even  toil  to  please  ; 
These  round  thy  bowers  thtir  cheerful  influence  shed, 
These  were  thy  charms. — But  all  these  charms  are  fled. 

Sweet  smiling  village,  loveliest  of  the  lawn, 
Thy  sports  are  fled,  and  all  thy  charms  withdrawn  ; 
Amidst  thy  bowers  the  tyrant's  hand  is  seen. 
And  desolation  saddens  all  thy  green  : 
One  only  master  grasps  the  whole  domain, 
And  half  a  tillage  stmts  thy  smiling  plain  ; 
No  more  thy  glassy  brook  reflects  the  day, 

*  But,  choked  with  sedges,  works  its  weedy  way ; 

•  Along  thy  glades,  a  solitary'  guest. 

The  hollow-sounding  bittern  guards  its  nest ; 
Amidst  thy  desert  walks  the  lapwing  flies, 
And  tires  their  echoes  with  unvaried  cries. 
Sunk  are  thy  bowers  in  shapeless  ruin  all, 
And  the  long  grass  o'ertops  the  moldering  wall ; 
And,  trembling,  shrinking  from  the  spoiler's  hand, 
Far,  far  away  thy  children  leave  the  land. 

Ill  fares  the  land,  to  hastening  ills  a  prey. 
Where  wealth  accumulates,  and  men  decay  ; 
Princes  and  lords  may  flourish  or  may  fade  ; 
A  breath  can  make  them,  as  a  breath  has  made ; 
But  a  bold  peasantry,  their  country's  pride. 
When  once  destroyed,  can  never  be  supplied. 

A  time  there  was,  ere  England's  griefs  began. 
When  every  rood  of  ground  maintained  its  man ; 
For  him  light  labor  spread  her  wholesome  store, 
Just  gave  what  life  required,  but  gave  no  more  ; 
His  best  companions,  innocence  and  health. 
And  his  best  riches,  ignorance  of  wealth. 

.  But  times  are  altered  ;  trade's  unfeeling  train 
Usurp  the  land,  and  dispossess  the  swain  ; 
Along  the  lawn,  where  scattered  hamlets  rose, 
Unwieldy  wealth  and  cumbrous  pomp  repose  :    ^ 
And  every  want  to  luxury'  allied. 
And  every  pang  that  folly  pays  to  pride. 
Those  gentle  hours  that  plenty  bade  to  bloom, 
Those  calm  desires  that  asked  but  little  room, 
Those  healthful  sports  that  graced  the  peaceful  scene. 
Lived  in  each  look,  and  brightened  all  the  green ; 
These,  far  departing,  seek  a  kinder  shore. 
And  rural  mirth  and  manners  are  no  more. 

Oliver  Goldsmith. 


LITTLE  NED. 

aLL  that  is  like  a  dream.     It  don't  seem  true  ! 
Father  was  gone,  and  mother  left,  you  see, 
To  work  for  little  brother  Ned  and  me  ; 
And  up  among  the  gloomy  roofs  we  grew — 
Locked  in  full  oft,  lest  we  should  wander  out, 
With  nothing  but  a  crust  o'  bread  to  eat, 

(19) 


While  mother  charred  for  poor  folk  round  about. 

Or  sold  cheap  odds  and  ends  from  street  to  street 
Yet,  Parson,  there  were  pleasures  fresh  and  fair, 
To  make  the  time  pass  happily  up  there — 
A  steamboat  going  past  upon  the  tide, 

A  pigeon  lighting  on  the  roof  close  by, 

The  sparrows  teaching  little  ones  to  fly. 
The  small  white  moving  clouds  that  we  espied, 

And  thought  were  living,  in  the  bit  of  sky — 

With  sights  like  these  right  glad  were  Ned  and  I ; 
And  then  we  loved  to  hear  the  soft  rain  calling. 

Pattering,  pattering  upon  ihe  tiles, 
And  it  was  fine  to  see  the  still  snow  falling. 

Making  the  house-tops  white  for  miles  on  miles, 
And  catch  it  in  our  little  hands  in  play, 
And  laugh  to  feel  it  melt  and  slip  away  ! 
But  I  was  six,  and  Ned  was  only  three. 
And  thinner,  weaker,  wearier  than  me  ; 

And  one  cold  day,  in  winter-time,  when  mother 
Had  gone  away  into  the  snow,  and  we 

Sat  close  for  warmth,  and  cuddled  one  another. 
He  put  his  little  head  upon  my  knee. 
And  went  to  sleep,  and  would  not  stir  a  limb, 

But  looked  quite  strange  and  old  ; 
And  when  I  shook  him,  kissed  him,  spoke  to  him, 

He  smiled,  and  grew  so  cold. 
Then  I  was  frightened,  and  cried  out,  and  none 

Could  hear  me,  while  I  sat  and  nursed  his  head, 
Watching  the  whitened  window,  while  the  sun 

Peeped  in  upon  his  face,  and  made  it  red. 
And  I  began  to  sob — till  mother  came. 
Knelt  down,  and  screamed,  and  named  the  good  God's 
name, 

And  told  me  he  was  dead. 
And  when  she  put  his  night-gown  on,  and,  weeping. 

Placed  him  among  the  rags  upon  his  bed, 
I  thought  that  brother  Ned  was  only  sleeping. 

And  took  his  little  hand,  and  felt  no  fear. 

But  when  the  place  grew  gray  and  cold  and  drear, 
And  the  round  moon  over  the  roofs  came  creeping. 

And  put  a  silver  shade 

All  round  the  chilly  bed  where  he  was  laid, 

I  cried,  and  was  afraid. 

Robert  Buchanan. 


THE  DANCE  OF  DEATH. 

HE  warder  looked  down  at  the  dead  of  night 
On  the  graves  where  the  dead  were  sleep- 
ing, 

'^       And  clearly  as  day  was  the  pale  moonlight 
O'er  the  quiet  churchyard  creeping. 
One  after  another  the  gravestones  began  • 
To  heave  and  to  open,  and  woman  and  man 
Rose  up  in  their  ghastly  apparel ! 

Ho,  ho,  for  the  dance  ! — and  the  phantoms  outsprung. 

In  skeleton  roundel  advancing, 
The  rich  and  the  poor,  and  the  old  and  the  youn^, 

But  the  winding-sheets  hindered  their  dancing — 


290 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


No  shame  had  these  revelers  wasted  and  grim — 
So  they  shook  off  the  cerements  from  body  and  limb, 
And  scattered  them  over  the  hillocks. 

They  crooked  their  thigh-bones,  and  they  shook  their 
long  shanks, 
And  wild  was  their  reeling,  and  limber  ; 
And  each  bone,  as  it  crosses,  it  clinks  and  it  clanks, 

Like  the  clapping  of  timber  on  timber. 
The  warder  he  laughed,  though  his  laugh  was  not 

loud  ; 
And  the  fiend  whispered  to  him  :  "Go  steal  me  the 
shroud 
Of  one  of  those  skeleton  dancers." 

He  has  done  it !  and  backward,  with  terrified  glance. 
To  the  sheltering  door  ran  the  warder ; 

As  calm  as  before  looked  the  moon  on  the  dance, 
Which  they  footed  in  hideous  order. 

But  one  and  another  retiring  at  last, 

Slipped  on  their  white  garments,  and  onward  they 
passed. 
And  a  hush  settled  over  the  greensward. 

Still  one  or  them  stumbles  and  tumbles  along, 

And  taps  at  each  tomb  that  it  seizes ; 
But  'tis  none  of  its  mates  that  has  done  it  this  wrong, 

For  it  scents  its  grave-clothes  in  the  breezes. 
It  shakes  the  tower  gate,  but  that  drives  it  away. 
For  'twas  nailed  o'er  with  crosses — a  goodly  array — 

And  well  it  was  so  for  the  warder  ! 

It  must  have  its  shroud — it  must  have  it  betimes — 

The  quaint  Gothic  carving  it  catches ; 
And  upwards  from  story  to  story  it  climbs, 

And  scrambles  with  leaps  and  with  snatches. 
Now  woe  to  the  warder,  poor  sinner,  betides  ! 
Like  a  spindle-legged  spider  the  skeleton  strides 

From  buttress  to  buttress,  still  upward  ! 

The  warder  he  shook,  and  the  warder  grew  pale. 
And  gladly  the  shroud  would  have  yielded  ! 

The  ghost  had  its  clutch  on  the  last  iron  rail. 
Which  the  top  of  the  watch-tower  shielded. 

When  the  moon  was  obscured  by  the  rush  of  a  cloud. 

One  !  thunderedthe  bell,  and  unswathed  by  a  shroud, 
Down  went  the  gaunt  skeleton  crashing. 

Translation  from  Goethe.  By  Theodore  Martin. 


SOMEBODY'S  MOTHER. 

'HE  wo;nan  was  old  and  ragged  and  gray, 
And  bent  with  the  chill  of  the  winter's  day ; 

The  street  was  wet  with  a  recent  snow. 
And  the  woman's  feet  were  aged  andslow. 

She  stood  at  the  crossing  and  waited  long, 
Alone,  uncared  for,  amid  the  throng 

Of  human  beings  who  passed  her  by, 
Nor  heeded  the  glance  of  her  anxious  eye. 


Down  the  street,  with  laughter  and  shout. 
Glad  in  the  freedom  of  "school  let  out," 

Came  the  boys,  like  a  flock  of  sheep, 
Hailing  the  snow  piled  white  and  deep. 

Past  the  woman  so  old  and  gray 
Hastened  the  children  on  their  way, 

Nor  offered  a  helping  hand  to  her, 
So  meek,  so  timid,  afraid  to  stir, 

Lest  the  carriage  wheels  or  the  horses'  feet 
Should  crowd  her  down  in  the  slippery  street. 

At  last  came  one  of  the  merry  troop — 
The  gayest  laddie  of  all  the  group  ; 

He  paused  beside  her,  and  whispered  low, 
"  I'll  help  you  across,  if  you  wish  to  go." 

Her  aged  hand  on  his  strong  young  arm 
She  placed,  and  so,  without  hurt  or  hai-m, 

He  guided  the  trembling  feet  along:, 
Proud  that  his  own  were  firm  and  strong 

Then  back  again  to  his  friends  he  went. 
His  young  heart  happy  and  well  content. 

"  She's  somebody's  mother,  boys,  you  know. 
For  all  she's  aged  and  poor  and  slow  ; 

And  I  hope  some  fellow  will  lend  a  hand 
To  help  my  mother,  you  understand. 

If  ever  she's  poor  and  old  and  gray. 
When  her  own  dear  boy  is  far  away." 

And  "somebody's  mother"  bowed  low  her  head 
In  her  home  that  night,  and  the  prayer  she  said, 

Was,  "God,  be  kind  to  the  noble  boy. 

Who  is  somebody's  son  and  pride  and  joy  !  " 


WEDDING  BELLS. 

ANDERING  away  on  tired  feet. 
Away  from  the  close  and  crowded  street, 
Faded  shawl  and  faded  gown, 
Unsmoothed  hair  of  a  golden  brown. 
Eyes  once  bright 
With  joyous  light. 
Away  from  the  city's  smoke  and  din. 
Trying  to  flee  from  it  and  sin. 
In  shame  cast  down, 
'Neath  the  scorn  and  frown 
Of  those  who  had  known  her  in  days  that  were  flown. 
The  same  blue  eyes— the  abode  of  tears, 
The  once  light  heart — the  abode  of  fears. 
While  dark  despair  came  creeping  in, 
As  she  fled  from  the  city's  smoke  and  din. 
With  a  yearning  sigh. 
And  a  heart-sick  cr>' — 


SENTIMENT  AND    REFLECTION. 


291 


"  Oh,  to  wander  away  and  die  ! 

God,  let  me  die  on  my  mother's  grave, 

'Tis  the  only  boon  I  dare  to  crave !  " 

And  she  struggled  on, 

With  a  weary  moan, 

In  the  noon-day  heat, 

From  the  dusty  street ; 
And  they  turned  to  gaze  on  the  fair  young  face, 
And  marveled  much  at  her  beauty  and  grace. 
What  cared  they  if  her  heart  was  aching  ? 
How  knew  they  that  her  heart  was  breaking  ? 

Forth  from  the  West  the  red  light  glowed, 
And  the  weary  feet  still  kept  on  their  road, 
Wand'ring  on  in  the  golden  sheen, 
Where  the  country  lanes  were  fresh  and  green. 
The  red  light  gleamed  on  the  village  tower, 
And  lit  up  the  clock  at  the  sunset  hour  ; 

And  still  her  cry 

Was,  "Oh,  to  die! 
God,  let  me  die  on  my  mother's  grave, 
'Tis  the  only  boon  I  care  to  crave  1 " 
The  sun  uprose,  and  the  light  of  day 
Brightly  scattered  the  clouds  of  gray ; 

And  the  village  was  gay 

For  a  holiday. 
Merrily  echoed  the  old  church  bells. 
Peal  on  peal,  o'er  the  hills  and  dells  ; 
Borne  away  on  the  morning  breeze 
Over  the  moorland,  over  the  leas  ; 
Back  again  with  a  joyous  clang ! 
Merrily,  cheerily,  on  they  rang  ! 
But  they  woke  her  not,  she  slumbered  on, 
With  her  head  laid  down  on  the  cold  gray  stone. 

The  village  was  bright 

In  the  gladsome  light, 
And  the  village  maidens  were  clad  in  white. 

As  side  by  side 

They  merrily  hied, 
In  gay  procession,  to  meet  the  bride  ; 
Strewing  the  path  of  the  village  street 
With  choicest  flowers  for  her  dainty  feet. 
A  joyful  chime  of  the  bells  again. 
To  proclaim  the  return  of  the  bridal  train  ; 
A  louder  peal  from  the  old  church-tower 
'As  the  bride  passes  on  through  the  floral  bower, 
With  the  bridegroom  happy,  tender  and  gay), 
And  the  echoes  are  carried  away,  away  ; 
But  they  linger  awhile  o'er  the  tombstones  gray  ; 
And  the  sleeper  awakes  with  a  yearning  cry — 
"Oh,  to  die  !  oh,  to  die  ! 
God  let  me  die  on  my  mother's  grave, 
'Tis  all  my  broken  heart  can  crave  ! " 
And  she  lays  her  head  again  on  the  stone. 
With  a  long-drawn  breath  and  a  sobbing  moan ; 
While  the  bridal  train  (with  many  a  thought 
Unspoken  of  omens  witli  evil  fraught) 
Sweeps  down  the  path  from  the  old  church  door, 


And  the  bells'  glad  music  is  wafted  once  more 

Over  the  moorland,  over  the  heath — 

But  they  wake  her  not,  for  her  sleep  is  death  ! 

Why  does  the  bridegroom's  cheek  turn  pale? 
Why  in  his  eye  such  a  look  of  bale? 
Why  does  he  totter,  then  quicken  his  pace 
As  he  catches  a  glimpse  of  the  poor  dead  face? 

Oh,  woe  betide, 

That  so  fair  a  bride 
As  she  who  steps  with  such  grace  by  his  side, 
Should  have  faced  grim  death  on  her  wcdding-day  ! 
Did  this  thought  trouble  tiie  bridegroom  gay, 
And  dash  from  his  eye  the  glad  light  away  ? 
I  wist  not;  for  never  a  word  he  spoke. 
And  soon  from  his  face  the  troubled  look 
Was  gone,  and  he  turn-^d  to  his  beautiful  bride 
With  a  radiant  smile  and  a  glance  of  pride  : 

And  his  eye  was  bright, 

And  his  step  was  light. 
As  would  beseem  with  her  by  his  side. 
Oh,  his  smile  is  glad,  and  his  heart  is  brave ! 
What  cares  he  for  the  dead  on  the  grave  ? 
The  faded  shawl,  and  faded  gown. 
And  unsmoothed  hair  of  golden  brown? 
Why  should  the  face  on  the  tombstone  gray 
Trouble  him  so  on  his  wedding-day  ? 
Fora:otten  words  that  were  long  since  spoken, 
Thoughts  of  vows  that  were  made  to  be  broken  ? 

Fling  them  away  ! 

Be  joyous  and  gay ! 
Death  will  never  a  secret  betray. 
Quaff  the  red  wine,  the  glasses  ring  ; 
Drink  !  till  the  gloomy  thoughts  take  wing; 
Drink  and  be  merry,  merry  and  glad  ! 
With  a  bride  so  lovely,  who  would  be  sad  ? 

Hark  !  the  wedding  bells  are  ringing-. 

Over  the  hills  their  echoes  flinging ; 

Carried  away  on  the  morning  breeze 

Over  the  moorland,  over  the  leas, 

Riding  back  on  the  zephyr  s  wing, 

Joyously,  merrily,  on  they  ring  ! 

But  she  will  not  wake,  her  sleep  is  deep. 

And  death  can  ever  a  secret  keep. 

Ah !  thy  smile  may  be  glad  and  thy  heart  may  be 

brave, 
'And  the  secret  be  kept  betwixt  thee  and  the  grave; 
But  shouldst  thou  fvjrget  it  for  one  short  day, 
In  the  gloom  of  niglit,  from  the  tombstone  gray, 
Will  come  the  sound  of  a  wailing  cry — 
"Oh,  to  die!  oh,  to  die!" 
And  the  bride  at  thy  bosom  will  raise  her  head 
In  affright,  as  she  hears  thee  call  on  the  dead 
In  a  ghastly  dream,  on  whose  wings  are  borne 
The  memories  of  thy  wedding  morn  ! 

Oh,  the  woeful  sight  of  the  pale,  dead  face, 
With  the  cold,  dank  stone  for  its  resting  place ! 


292 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


Oh,  the  mocking  chime  of  the  old  church  bell ! 
It  shall  seem  to  peal  from  the  mouth  of  hell  ; 
Into  thy  dreams  its  echoes  bringing, 
Merrily,  madly,  ceaselessly  ringing  ! 

The  white  face  shall  haunt  thee  ! 

The  bells  they  shall  taunt  thee  ! 
Echoed  and  tossed  on  the  withering  breath 
Of  a  curse  that  shall  cling  round  thy  soul  till  death. 
Charlotte  M.  Griffiths. 


THE  WEAVER. 

Q  WEAVER  sat  by  the  side  of  his  loom 
A-flinging  the  shuttle  fast, 
And  a  thread  that  would  last  till  the  hour  of 
doom 
Was  added  at  every  cast. 

His  warp  had  been  by  the  angels  spun,* 

And  his  weft  was  bright  and  new. 
Like  threads  which  the  morning  upraids  from  the  sun. 

All  jeweled  over  with  dew. 

And  fresh-lipped,  bright-eyed,  beautiful  flowers 

In  the  rich  soft  web  were  bedded  ; 
And  blithe  to  the  weaver  sped  onward  the  hours. 

Not  yet  were  Time's  feet  leaded. 

But  something  there  came  slow  stealing  by, 

And  a  shade  on  the  fabric  fell ; 
And  I  saw  that  the  shuttle  less  blithely  did  fly  ; 

For  thought  has  a  wearisome  spell. 

And  the  thread  that  next  o'er  the  warp  was  lain 

Was  of  a  melancholy  gray. 
And  anon  I  marked  there  a  tear-drop's  stain 

Where  the  flowers  had  fallen  away. 

But  still  the  weaver  kept  weaving  on, 

Though  the  fabric  all  was  gray  ; 
And  the  flowers,  and  the  buds,  and  the  leaves  were 
gone, 

And  the  gold  threads  cankered  lay. 

And  dark,  and  still  darker,  and  darker  grew 

Each  newly  woven  thread, 
And  some  were  of  a  death  mocking  hue. 

And  some  of  a  bloody  red. 

And  things  all  strange  were  woven  in. 

Sighs,  down-crushed  hopes  and  fears. 
And  the  web  was  broken,  and  poor  and  thin, 

And  it  dripped  with  living  tears. 

And  the  weaver  fain  would  have  flung  it  aside, 

But  he  knew  it  would  be  a  sin  ; 
So  in  light  and  in  gloom  the  shuttle  he  plied, 

A-weaving  those  life-cords  in. 

And  as  he  wove,  and  weeping  still  wove, 

A  tempter  stole  him  nigh  ; 
And  with  glowing  words  he  to  win  him  strove, 

But  the  weaver  turned  his  eye — 


He  upward  turned  his  eye  to  heaven, 

And  still  wove  on — on — on  ! 
Till  the  last,  last  cord  from  his  heart  was  riven. 

And  the  tissue  strange  was  done. 

Then  he  threw  it  about  his  shoulders  bowed. 

And  about  his  grizzled  head. 
And  gathering  close  the  folds  of  his  shroud. 

Laid  him  down  among  the  dead. 

And  after,  I  saw,  in  a  robe  of  light, 

The  weaver  in  the  sky  ; 
The  angels'  wings  were  not  more  bright, 

And  the  stars  grew  pale,  it  nigh. 

And  I  saw  mid  the  folds  all  the  iris-hued  flowers 

That  beneath  his  touch  had  sprung. 
More  beautiful  far  than  these  stray  ones  of  ours, 

Which  the  angels  have  to  us  flung. 

And  wherever  a  tear  had  fallen  down 

Gleamed  out  a  diamond  rare. 
And  jewels  befitting  a  monarch's  crown 

Were  foot-prints  left  by  care. 

And  wherever  had  swept  the  breath  of  a  sigh 

Was  left  a  rich  perfume, 
And  with  light  from  the  fountain  of  bliss  in  the  sky 

Shone  the  labor  of  sorrow  and  gloom. 

And  then  I  prayed  :  "When  my  last  work  is  done, 

And  the  silver  cord  is  riven, 
Be  the  stain  of  sorrow  the  deepest  one 

That  I  bear  with  me  to  heaven." 

THE    PRESENT    CONDITION    OF   MAN    VIN- 
DICATED. 

'EAVEN  from  all  creatures  hides  the  book  of  fate, 
All  but  the  page  prescribed,  their  present  state ; 
From  brutes  what  men,  from  men  what  spirits 
know. 

Or  who  could  suffer  being  here  below  ? 
The  lamb  thy  riot  dooms  to  bleed  to-day. 
Had  he  thy  reason,  would  he  skip  and  play  ? 
Pleased  to  the  last,  he  crops  the  flowery  food. 
And  licks  the  hand  just  raised  to  shed  his  blood. 
O  blindness  to  the  future  !  kindly  given. 
That  each  may  fill  the  circle  marked  by  Heaven  ; 
Who  sees  with  equal  eye,  as  God  of  all, 
A  hero  perish  or  a  sparrow  fall ; 
Atoms  or  systems  into  ruin  hurled. 
And  now  a  bubble  burst,  and  now  a  world. 

Hope  humbly,  then,  with  trembling  pinions  soar ; 
Wait  the  great  teacher,  death ;  and  God  adore. 
What  future  bliss,  he  gives  not  thee  to  know, 
But  gives  that  hope  to  be  thy  blessing  now. 
Hope  springs  eternal  in  the  human  breast ; 
Man  never  is,  but  always  to  be  blest ; 
The  soul,  uneasy  and  confined  from  home. 
Rests  and  expatiates  in  a  life  to  come. 


SENTIMENT  AND    REFLECTION. 


293 


Lo  the  poor  Indian,  whose  untutored  m'nd 
Sees  God  in  clouds,  and  hears  him  in  the  wind  ; 
His  soul  proud  science  never  tauglit  to  stray 
Far  as  the  solar  walk,  or  milky  way  ; 
Yet  simple  nature  to  his  hope  has  given. 
Behind  the  cloud-toppt  d  hill,  a  humbler  heaven  ; 
Some  safer  world  in  depth  of  woods  embraced, 
Some  happier  island  in  the  watery  waste, 
Where  slaves  once  more  their  native  land  behold. 
No  fiends  torment,  no  Christians  thirst  for  gold. 
To  BE,  contents  his  natural  desire. 
He  asks  no  angel's  wing,  no  seraph's  fire  : 
But  thinks,  admitted  to  that  equal  sky, 
His  faithful  dog  shall  bear  him  company. 
Go,  wiser  thou  !  and  in  thy  scale  of  sense 
Weigh  thy  opinion  against  Providence  ; 
Call  imperfection  what  thou  fanciest  such. 
Say,  here  he  gives  too  little,  there  too  much  : 
Destroy  all  creatures  for  thy  sport  or  gust. 
Yet  cry,  if  man's  unhappy,  God's  unjust ; 
If  man  alone  engross  not  Heaven's  high  care. 
Alone  made  perfect  here,  immortal  there  : 
Snatch  from  his  hand  the  balance  and  the  rod, 
Re-judge  his  justice,  be  the  God  of  God. 
In  pride,  in  reasoning  pride,  our  error  lies  ; 
All  quit  their  sphere,  and  rush  into  the  skies. 
Pride  still  is  aiming  at  tlie  blest  abodes. 
Men  would  be  angels,  angels  would  be  Gods. 
Aspiring  to  be  Gods,  if  angels  fell. 
Aspiring  to  be  angels,  men  rebel ; 
And  who  but  wishes  to  revert  the  laws 
Of  order  sins  against  the  Eternal  Cause. 

Alexander  Pope. 


THE  BRIDGE. 

STOOD  on  the  bridge  at  midnight, 

As  the  clocks  were  striking  the  hour  ; 
And  the  moon  rose  o'er  the  city, 
Behind  the  dark  church-tower  ; 

And,  like  the  waters  rushing 
Among  the  wooden  piers, 

A  flood  of  thoughts  came  o'er  me, 
That  filled  my  eyes  with  tears — 

How  often,  oh  !  how  often. 
In  the  days  that  had  gone  by, 
I  had  stood  on  that  bridge  at  midnight, 
And  gazed  on  that  wave  and  sky  ! 

How  often,  oh  !  how  often, 
In  the  days  that  had  gone  by, 
I  had  stood  on  that  bridge  at  midnight, 
And  gazed  on  that  wave  and  sky  ! 

How  often,  oh  !  how  often, 

I  had  wished  that  the  ebbing  tide 

Would  bear  me  away  on  its  bosom, 
O'er  the  ocean  wild  and  wide  ! 

For  my  heart  was  hot  and  restless, 
And  my  life  was  full  of  care  ; 


And  the  burthen  laid  upon  me 
Seemed  greater  than  I  could  bear ; 

But  now  it  has  fallen  from  me 
It  is  buried  in  the  sea. 

And  only  the  sorrow  of  others 
Throws  its  shadow  over  me  ; 

Yet,  whenever  I  cross  the  river, 
On  its  bridge  with  wooden  piers, 
Like  the  odor  of  brine  from  the  ocean, 
Come  the  thoughts  of  other  years ; 

And  for  ever  and  for  ever, 
As  long  as  the  river  flows, 
As  long  as  the  heart  has  passions. 
As  long  as  life  has  woes. 

The  moon  and  its  broken  reflection. 
And  its  shadows  shall  appear 

As  the  symbol  of  love  in  heaven, 
And  its  wavering  image  here. 


iIj 


THE  POLISH  BOY. 

HENCE  come  those  shrieks  so  wild  and  shrill 
That  cut  like  blades  of  steel,  the  air. 
Causing  the  creeping  blood  to  chill 
With  the  sharp  cadence  of  despair  ? 


Again  they  come,  as  if  a  heart 
Were  cleft  in  twain  by  one  quick  blow, 

And  every  string  had  voice  apart 
To  utter  its  peculiar  woe. 

Whence  came  thej-  ?  from  yon  temple  where 
An  altar,  raised  for  private  prayer. 

Now  forms  the  warrior's  marble  bed 
Who  Warsaw's  gallant  armies  led. 

The  dim  funeral  tapers  throw 
A  holy  lustre  o'er  his  brow. 
And  burnish  with  their  rays  of  light 
The  mass  of  curls  that  gather  bright 
Above  the  haughty  brow  and  eye 
Of  a  young  boy  that's  kneeling  by. 

What  hand  is  that,  whose  icy  press 

Clings  to  the  dead  with  death's  own  grasp, 
But  meets  no  answering  caress  ? 

No  thrilling  fingers  seek  its  clasp  ? 
It  is  the  hand  of  her  whose  cry 

Rang  wildly,  late,  upon  the  air. 
When  the  dead  warrior  met  her  eye 

Outstretched  upon  the  altar  there. 

With  pallid  lip  and  stony  brow 
She  murmnrs  forth  her  anguish  now, 
But  hark  !  the  tramp  of  heavy  feet 
Is  heard  along  the  bloody  street ; 
Nearer  and  nearer  yet  they  come. 
With  clanking  arms  and  noiseless  drum. 
Now  whispered  curses,  low  and  deep, 
Around  the  holy  temple  creep ; 


294 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


The  gate  is  burst ;  a  ruffian  band 

Rush  in  and  savagely  demand, 

With  brutal  voice  and  oath  profane 

The  startled  boy  for  exile's  chain. 

*^-'. .. 

The  mother  sprang  with  gesture  wild, 

And  to  her  bosom  clasped  her  child  ; 

Then  with  pale  cheek  and  flashing  eye 

Shouted  with  fearful  energy, 

"  Back,  ruffians,  back,  nor  dare  to  tread 

Too  near  the  body  of  my  dead ; 

Nor  touch  the  living  boy — I  stand 

Between  him  and  your  lawless  band. 

Take  me,  and  bind  these  arms,  these  hands. 

With  Russia's  heaviest  iron  bands. 

And  drag  me  to  Siberia's  wild 

To  perish,  if  'twill  save  my  child  ! " 

"  Peace,  woman,  peace  !"  the  leader  cried, 
Tearing  the  pale  boy  from  ht-r  side, 
And  in  his  ruffian  grasp  he  bore 
His  victim  to  the  temple  door. 

" One  moment ! "  shrieked  the  mother,  "one  ! 
Will  land  or  gold  redeem  my  son  ? 
Take  heritage,  take  name,  take  all. 
But  leave  him  free  from  Russian  thrall ! 
Take  these!"  and  her  white  arms  and  hands 
She  stripped  of  rings  and  diamond  bands, 
And  tore  from  braids  of  long  black  hair 
The  gems  that  gleamed  like  starlight  there  ; 
Her  cross  of  blazing  rubies  last 
Down  at  the  Russian's  feet  she  cast. 
He  stooped  to  seize  the  glittering  store. 
Upspringing  from  the  marble  floor, 
The  mother  with  a  cry  of  joy. 
Snatched  to  her  leaping  heart  the  boy. 
But  no  !  the  Russian's  iron  grasp 
Again  undid  the  mother's  clasp. 
Forward  she  fell,  with  one  long  cry 
Of  more  than  mortal  agony. 

But  the  brave  child  is  roused  at  length. 

And  breaking  from  the  Russian's  hold, 
He  stands  a  giant  in  the  strength 

Of  his  young  spirit  fierce  and  bold. 
Proudly  he  towers  ;  his  flashing  eye, 

So  blue,  and  yet  so  bright, 
Seems  kindled  from  the  eternal  sky. 

So  brilliant  is  its  light. 


His  curling  lips  and  crimson  cheeks 
Foretell  the  thought  before  he  speaks, 
With  a  full  voice  of  proud  command 
He  turned  upon  the  wondering  band  : 

"  Ye  hold  me  not  !  no,  no,  nor  can  ! 
This  hour  has  made  the  boy  a  man  ! 
I  knelt  before  my  slaughtered  sire. 
Nor  felt  one  throb  of  vengeful  ire. 
I  wept  upon  a  marble  brow, 
Yes,  wept  1  I  was  a  child  ,  but  now — 
My  noble  mother  on  her  knee 
Hath  done  the  work  of  years  for  me  ! " 
He  drew  aside  his  broidered  vest. 
And  there,  like  slumbering  serpent's  crest. 
The  jeweled  haft  of  poignard  bright 
Glittered  a  moment  on  the  sight. 

"  Ha  !  start  ye  back  !    Fool !  coward  I  knave ! 
Think  ye  my  noble  father's  glaive 
Would  drink  the  life-blood  of  a  slave  ? 
The  pearls  that  on  the  handle  flame 
Would  blush  to  rubies  in  their  shame  ; 
The  blade  would  quiver  in  thy  breast. 
Ashamed  of  such  ignoble  rest. 
No  !  thus  I  rend  the  tyrant's  chain, 
And  fling  him  back  a  boy's  disdain  ! " 

A  moment  and  the  funeral  light 
Flashed  on  the  jeweled  weapon  bright; 
Another,  and  his  young  heart's  blood 
Leaped  to  the  floor,  a  crimson  flood. 
Quick  to  his  mother's  side  he  sprang. 
And  on  the  air  his  clear  voice  rang : 
"  Up  mother,  up  !    I'm  free  !  I'm  free  ! 
The  choice  was  death  or  slavery. 

Up,  mother,  up  !  Look  on  thy  son  I 

His  freedom  is  forever  won, 

And  now  he  waits  one  holy  kiss 

To  bear  his  father  home  in  bliss — 

One  last  embrace,  one  blessing — one ! 

To  prove  thou  knowest,  approvest  thy  son. 

What  1  silent  yet?     Canst  thou  not  feel 

My  warm  blood  o'er  my  heart  congeal  ? 

Speak,  mother,  speak  I  lift  up  thy  head  ! 
What !  silent  still  ?    Then  art  thou  dead  ? 

Great  God,  I  thank  Thee  !     Mother,  I 

Rejoice  with  thee — and  thus — to  die  ! " 
One  long,  deep  breath,  and  his  pale  head 
Lay  on  his  mother's  bosom — dead. 

Ann  S.  Stephens. 


LIBOR  SND  REFORM. 


WORK. 

WEET  wind,  fair  wind, 
where  have  you  been  ? 
"  I've   been    sweeping 
the    cobwebs  out   of 
the  sky  ; 
I've  been  grindinga  grist 
in  the  mill  hard  by  ; 
.I've  been  laughing   at    work 
while  others  sigh ; 

Let   those    laugh    who 
win!" 

Sweet  rain,  soft  rain,  what  are 

you  doing? 
"I'm  urging  the  corn  to  fill 

out  its  cells ; 
I'm  helping  the  lily  to  fashion 
its  bells ; 

I'm  swelling  the  torrent  and  brimming  the  wells  ; 
Is  that  worth  pursuing  ?  " 

Redbreast,  redbreast,  what  have  you  done  ? 

"  I've  been  watching  the  nest  where  my  fledgelings 

lie; 
I've  sung  them  to  sleep  wiih  a  lullaby ; 
By  and  by  I  shall  teach  them  to  fly, 
Up  and  away,  every  one !  " 

Honey  bee,  honey-bee,  where  are  you  going  ? 
"To  fill  my  basket  with  precious  pelf; 
To  toil  for  my  neighbor  as  well  as  myself; 
To  find  out  the  sweetest  flower  that  grows. 
Be  it  a  thistle  or  be  it  a  rose — 

A  secret  worth  the  knowing  !  " 

Each  content  with  the  work  to  be  done. 

Ever  the  same  from  sun  to  sun  : 

Shall  you  and  I  be  taught  to  work 

By  the  bee  and  the  bird,  that  scorn  to  shirk? 

Wind  and  rain  fulfilling  His  word  1 

Tell  me,  was  ever  a  legend  heard 

Where  the  wind,  commanded  to  blow,  deferred; 

Or  the  rain,  that  was  bidden  to  fall,  demurred  ? 

Mary  N.  Prescott. 


THE  THREE  FISHERS. 

'HREE  fishers  went  sailing  out  into  the  West, 
Out  into  the  West  as  the  sun  went  down  ; 
Each  thought  on  the  woman  who  loved  him 
■^  the  best. 

And  the  children  stood  watching  them  out  of  the 
town  ; 


For  men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep, 

And  there's  little  to  earn,  and  many  to  keep. 

Though  the  harbor  bar  be  moaning. 

Three  wives  sat  up  in  the  lighthouse  tower. 

And  they  trimmed  the  lamps  as  the  sun  went  down. 
They  looked  at  the  squall,  and  they  looked  at  ihe 
shower, 
And  the  night  rack  came  rolling  up  ragged  and 
brown ! 
But  men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep, 
Though  storms  be  sudden,  and  waters  deep, 
And  the  harbor  bar  be  moaning. 

Three  corpses  lay  out  on  the  shining  sands 

In  the  morning  gleam  as  the  tide  went  down. 
And  the  women  are  weeping  and  wringing  their  hands 

For  those  who  will  never  come  back  to  the  town ; 
For  men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep. 
The  sooner  it's  over,  the  sooner  to  sleep — 

And  good  by  to  the  bar  and  its  moaning. 
Charles  Kingsley. 


llJ 


THE  SONG  OF  THE   SHIRT. 

ITH  fingers  weary  and  worn. 
With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 
A  woman  sat,  in  unwomanly  rags, 
Plying  her  needle  and  thread — 
Stitch  !  stitch  !  stitch  ! 
In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt ; 

And  still  with  a  voice  of  dolorous  pitch 
She  sang  the  "Song  of  the  Shirt !  " 

Work  !  work !  work  ! 

While  the  cock  is  crowing  aloof! 
And  work — work — work. 

Till  the  stars  shine  through  the  roof! 
It's  O  !  to  be  a  slave 

Along  with  the  barbarous  Turk, 
Where  woman  has  never  a  soul  to  save, 

If  this  is  Christian  work  ! 

Work — work — work 

Till  the  brain  begins  to  swim  ! 
Work — work — work 

Till  the  eyes  are  heavy  and  dim ! 
Seam,  and  gusset,  and  band. 

Band,  and  gusset,  and  seam — 
Till  over  the  buttons  I  fall  asleep, 

And  sew  them  on  in  a  dream  ! 

O,  men,  with  sisters  dear  ! 

O,  men,  with  mothers  and  wives! 
It  is  not  linen  you're  wearing  out, 

But  human  creatures'  lives  ! 


(295) 


296 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


Stitch — stitcli— stitch, 
In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt — 
Sewing  at  once,  with  a  double  thread, 
A  shroud  as  well  as  a  shirt ! 

But  why  do  I  talk  of  death — 

That  phantom  of  grisly  bone? 
I  hardly  fear  his  terrible  shape, 

It  seems  so  like  my  own — 
It  seems  so  like  my  own 

Because  of  the  fasts  I  keep  ; 
O  God  !  that  bread  should  be  so  dear, 

And  flesh  and  blood  so  cheap  ! 

Work — ^work — work  ! 

My  labor  never  flags  ; 
And  what  are  its  wages  ?    A  bed  of  straw, 

A  crust  of  bread — and  rags. 
That  shattered  roof— and  this  naked  floor — 

A  table — a  broken  chair — 
And  a  wall  so  blank  my  shadow  I  thank 

For  sometimes  falling  there  ! 

Work — work — work  ! 

From  weary  chime  to  chime  ! 
Work— work — work — 

As  prisoners  work  for  crime  ! 
Band,  and  gusset,  and  seam. 

Seam,  and  gusset,  and  band — 
Till  the  heart  is  sick  and  the  brain  benumbed. 

As  well  as  the  weary  hand. 

Work — work — work 

In  the  dull  December  light ! 
And  work — work — work, 

When  the  weather  is  warm  and  bright ! — 
While  underneath  the  eaves 

The  brooding  swallows  cling, 
As  if  to  show  me  their  sunny  backs. 

And  twit  me  with  the  spring. 

Oh  !  but  to  breathe  the  breath 

Of  the  cowslip  and  primrose  sweet — 
With  the  sky  above  my  head. 

And  the  grass  beneath  my  feet  1 
For  only  one  short  hour 

To  feel  as  I  used  to  feel, 
Before  I  knew  the  woes  of  want. 

And  the  walk  that  costs  a  meal ! 

Oh  !  but  for  one  short  hour — 

A  respite  however  brief ! 
No  blessed  leisure  for  love  or  hope. 

But  only  time  for  grief! 
A  little  weeping  would  ease  my  heart ; 

But  in  their  briny  bed 
My  tears  must  stop,  for  every  drop 

Hinders  needle  and  thread  ! 

With  fingers  weary  and  worn, 
And  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 


A  woman  sat,  in  unwomanly  rags. 
Plying  her  needle  and  thread — 

Stitch  !  stitch  !  stitch  ! 
In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt ; 
And  still,  with  a  voice  of  dolorous  pitch — 
Would  that  its  tone  could  reach  the  rich  ! — 
She  sang  this  "  Song  of  the  Shirt  !  " 

Thomas  Hood. 


llJ 


WHAT  MIGHT  BE  DONE. 

HAT  might  be  done  if  men  were  wise — 

What  glorious  deeds,  my  suflfering  brother, 
Would  they  unite 
In  love  and  right. 
And  cease  their  scorn  of  one  another? 

Oppression's  heart  might  be  imbued 
With  kindling  drops  of  loving-kindness  ; 

And  knowledge  pour, 

From  shore  to  shore, 
Light  on  the  eyes  of  mental  blindness. 

All  slavery,  warfare,  lies,  and  wrongs, 
All  vice  and  crime,  might  die  together ; 

And  wine  and  corn, 

To  each  man  born, 
Be  free  as  warmth  in  summer  weather. 

The  meanest  wretch  that  ever  trod, 
The  deepest  sunk  in  guilt  and  sorrow, 

Might  stand  erect 

In  self-respect. 
And  share  the  teeming  world  to-morrow. 

What  might  be  done  ?     This  might  be  done, 
And  more  than  this,  my  suffering  brother — 
More  than  the  tongue 
E'er  said  or  sung. 
If  men  were  wise  and  loved  each  other, 

Charles  Mackay. 

LABOR. 

FAUSE  not  to  dream  of  the  future  before  us  ; 
Pause  not  to  weep  the  wild  cares  that  come 
o'er  us; 
Hark  how  creation's  deep,  musical  chorus, 
Unintermitting,  goes  up  into  heaven  ! 
Never  the  ocean-wave  falters  in  flowing ; 
Never  the  little  seed  stops  in  its  growing ; 
More  and  more  richly  the  rose  heart  keeps  glowing. 
Till  from  its  nourishing  stem  it  is  riven. 

"  Labor  is  worship  !"  the  robin  is  singing; 
"  Labor  is  worship  !"  the  wild  bee  is  ringing: 
Listen  I  that  eloquent  whisper,  upspringing 

Speaks  to  thy  soul  from  out  nature's  great  heart. 
From  the  dark  cloud  flows  the  life-giving  shower  ; 
From  the  rough  sod  blows  the  soft-breathing  flower; 
From  the  small  insect,  the  rich  coral  bower  ; 

Only  man,  in  the  plan,  shrinks  from  his  part. 


LABOR   AND    REFORM. 


297 


Labor  is  life ! — 'Tis  the  still  water  faileth  ; 

Idleness  ever  despaireth,  bewaileth  ; 

Keep  the  watch  wound,  for  the  dark  rust  assaileth ; 

Flowers  droop  and  die  in  the  stillness  of  noon. 
Labor  is  glory  ! — the  flying  cloud  lightens  ; 
Only  the  waving  wing  changes  and  brightens  ; 
Idle  hearts  only  the  dark  future  frightens  : 

Play  the  sweet  keys,  wouldst  thou  keep  them  in 
tune  I 

Labor  is  rest  from  the  sorrows  that  greet  us, 
Rest  from  all  petty  vexations  that  meet  us, 
Rest  from  sin-promptings  that  ever  entreat  us. 

Rest  from  world-sirens  that  lure  us  to  ill. 
Work — and  pure  slumbers  shall  wait  on  thy  pillow; 
Work — thou  shalt  ride  over  care's  coming  billow  ; 
Lie  not  down  wearied  'neath  woe's  weeping  willow  ! 

Work  with  a  stout  heart  and  resolute  will  ! 

Labor  is  health  ! — Lo  !  the  husbandman  reaping, 
How  through  his  veins  goes  the  life-current  leaping  1 
How  his  strong  arm  in  its  stalwart  pride  sweeping, 

True  as  a  sunbeam  the  swift  sickle  guides. 
Labor  is  wealth — in  the  sea  the  pearl  groweth ; 
Rich  the  queen's  robe  from  the  frail  cocoon  floweth  ; 
From  the  fine  acorn  the  strong  forest  bloweth  ; 

Tempfle  and  statue  the  marble  block  hides. 

Droop    not,    though    shame,    sin,    and   anguish    are 

round  thee ; 
Bravely  fling  off  the  cold  chain  that  hath  bound  thee  ! 
Look  to  yon  pure  heaven  smiling  beyond  thee  : 

Rest  not  content  in  thy  darkness — a  clod  ! 
Work  for  some  good,  be  it  ever  so  slowly  ; 
Cherish  some  flower,  be  it  ever  so  lowly  : 
Labor  ! — all  labor  is  noble  and  holy  ; 

Let  thy  great  deeds  be  thy  prayer  to  thy  God. 

Frances  Sargent  Osgood. 


THE  FACTORY  GIRL'S  LAST  DAY. 

Robert  Dale  Owen,  in  one  of  the  chapters  of  his  autobiographyi 
reproduces  the  following  poem,  written  many  years  ago  to  illus- 
trate an  incident  of  English  factory  life. 

WAS  on  a  winter  morning, 

The  weather  wet  and  wild, 
Two  hours  before  the  dawning 

The  father  roused  his  child ; 
Her  daily  morsel  bringing. 

The  darksome  room  he  paced, 
And  cried,  "  The  bell  is  ringing ; 

My  hapless  darling,  haste  !  " 

"  Dear  father,  I'm  so  sorry  ! 

I  scarce  can  reach  the  door ; 
And  long  the  way  and  dreary  ; 

Oh,  carry  me  once  more  !  " 
Her  wasted  form  seems  nothing  ; 

The  load  is  on  his  heart  ; 
He  soothes  the  little  sufferer, 

Till  at  the  mill  they  part. 


The  overlooker  met  her 

As  to  her  frame  she  crept ; 
And  with  his  thong  he  beat  her, 

And  cursed  her  when  she  wept. 
It  seemed,  as  she  grew  weaker. 

The  threads  the  oftener  broke  , 
The  rapid  wheels  ran  quicker, 

And  heavier  fell  the  stroke. 

She  thought  how  her  dead  mother 

Blessed  with  her  latest  breath. 
And  of  her  little  brother. 

Worked  down,  like  her,  to  death  ; 
Then  told  a  tiny  neighbor 

A  half-penny  she'd  pay 
To  take  her  last  hour's  labor, 

While  by  her  frame  she  lay. 

The  sun  had  long  descended 

Ere  she  sought  that  repose ; 
Her  day  began  and  ended 

As  cruel  tyrants  chose. 
Then  home !  but  oft  she  tarried  ; 

She  fell,  and  rose  once  more  ; 
By  pitying  comrades  carried. 

She  reached  her  father's  door. 

At  night,  with  tortured  feeling. 
He  watched  his  sleepless  child  ; 

Though  close  beside  her  kneeling, 
She  knew  him  not,  nor  smiled. 

Again  the  factory's  ringing 
Her  last  perceptions  tried  ; 

Up  from  her  straw-bed  springing, 

"  It's  time  !  "  she  shrieked,  and  died. 

That  night  a  chariot  passed  her, 

While  on  the  ground  she  lay  ; 
The  daughters  of  her  master 

An  evening  visit  pay. 
Their  tender  hearts  were  sighing. 

As  negro's  wrongs  were  told 
While  the  white  slave  was  dying 

Who  gained  their  father's  gold. 


THE  CORAL-INSECT. 

OIL  on  I  toil  on  !  ye  ephemeral  train, 
Who  build  in  the  tossing  and   treacherous 
main  ; 
"^        Toil  on — for  the  wisdom  of  man  ye  mock. 
With,  your  sand-based  structures  and  domes  of  rock  : 
Your  columns  the  fathomless  fountains  lave. 
And  your  arches  spring  up  to  the  crested  wave  ; 
Ye're  a  puny  race,  thus  to  boldly  rear 
A  fabric  so  vast,  in  a  realm  so  drear. 

Ye  bind  the  deep  with  your  secret  zone. 
The  ocean  is  sealed,  and  the  surge  a  stone  ; 
Fresh  wreaths  from  the  coral  pavement  spring. 
Like  the  terraced  pride  of  Assyria's  king ; 


i08 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


The  turf  looks  green  where  the  breakers  rolled  ; 

O'er  the  whirlpool  ripens  the  rind  of  gold  ; 

The  sea-snatched  isle  is  the  home  of  men, 

And  the  mountains  exult  where  the  wave  hath  been. 

But  why  do  ye  plant  'neath  the  billows  dark 
The  wrecking  reef  for  the  gallant  bark  ? 
There  are  snares  enough  on  the  tented  field, 
'Mid  the  blossomed  sweets  that  the  valleys  yield; 
There  are  serpents  to  coil,  ere  the  flowers  are  up  ; 
There's  a  poison-drop  in  man's  purest  cup ; 
There  are  foes  that  watch  for  his  cradle  breath  ; 
And  why  need  you  sow  the  floods  with  death  ? 

With  mouldering  bones  the  deeps  are  white, 
From  the  ice-clad  pole  to  the  tropics  bright ; 
The  mermaid  hath  twisted  her  fingers  cold 
With  the  mesh  of  the  sea-boy's  curls  of  gold, 
And  the  gods  of  ocean  have  frowned  to  see 
The  mariner's  bed  in  their  halls  of  glee ; 
Hath  earth  no  graves,  that  ye  thus  must  spread 
The  boundless  sea  for  the  thronging  dead  ? 

Ye  build — ye  build — but  ye  enter  not  in, 
Like  the  tribes  whom  the  desert  devoured  in  their  sin  • 
From  the  land  of  promise  ye  fade  and  die, 
Ere  its  verdure  gleams  forth  on  your  weary  eye ; 
As  the  kings  of  the  cloud-crowned  pyramid. 
Their  noteless  bones  in  oblivion  hid, 
Ye  slumber  unmarked  'mid  the  desolate  main, 
While  the  wonder  and  pride  of  your  works  remain. 
LvDiA  Huntley  Sigournev. 


Ring  in  the  love  of  truth  and  right. 
Ring  in  the  common  love  of  good. 

Ring  out  old  shapes  of  foul  disease, 

Ring  out  the  narrowing  lust  of  gold, 
Ring  out  the  thousand  wars  of  old  ; 

Ring  in  the  thousand  years  of  peace. 

Ring  in  the  valiant  man,  and  free. 

The  larger  heart,  the  kindlier  hand  ; 
Ring  out  the  darkness  of  the  land  ; 

Ring  in  the  Christ  that  is  to  be. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


RING  OUT,  WILD  BELLS! 

ING  out,  wild  bells,  to  the  wild  sky, 
The  flying  cloud,  the  frosty  light; 
The  year  is  dying  in  the  night; 
Ring  out,  wild  bells,  and  let  him  die. 

Ring  out  the  old,  ring  in  the  new — 

Ring,  happy  bells,  across  the  snow ; 
The  year  is  going,  let  him  go ; 

Ring  out  the  false,  ring  in  the  true. 

Ring  out  the  grief  that  saps  the  mind, 
For  those  that  here  we  see  no  more ; 
Ring  out  the  feud  of  rich  and  poor. 

Ring  in  redress  to  all  mankind. 

Ring  out  a  slowly  dying  cause. 

And  ancient  forms  of  paltry  strife ; 
Ring  in  the  nobler  modes  of  life. 

With  sweeter  manners,  purer  laws. 

Ring  out  the  want,  the  care,  the  sin, 

The  faithless  coldness  of  the  times  ; 
Ring  out,  ring  out  my  mournful  rhymes. 

But  ring  the  fuller  minstrel  in. 

Ring  out  false  pride  in  place  and  blood, 
The  civic  slander  and  the  spite ; 


THE  GOOD  TIME  COMING. 

'HERE'S  a  good  time  coming,  boys, 
A  good  time  coming  : 
We  may  not  live  to  see  the  day, 
But  earth  shall  glisten  in  the  ray 

Of  the  good  time  coming. 
Cannon  balls  may  aid  the  truth, 

But  thought's  a  weapon  stronger ; 
We'll  win  our  battle  by  its  aid  ; — 
VVait  a  little  longer. 

There's  a  good  time  coming,  boys, 

A  good  time  coming  : 
The  pen  shall  supersede  the  sword  ; 
And  right,  not  might,  shall  be  the  lord 

In  the  good  time  coming. 
Worth,  not  birth,  shall  rule  mankind. 

And  be  acknowledged  stronger  ; 
The  proper  impulse  has  been  given ; — 

Wait,  a  little  longer. 

There's  a  good  time  coming,  boys, 

A  good  time  coming  : 
War  in  all  men's  eyes  shall  be 
A  monster  of  iniquity 

In  the  good  time  coming. 
Nations  shall  not  quarrel  then. 

To  prove  which  is  the  stronger  ; 
Nor  slaughter  men  for  glory's  sake ; — 

Wait  a  little  longer. 

There's  a  good  time  coming,  boys, 

A  good  time  coming  : 
Hateful  rivalries  of  creed 
Shall  not  make  their  martyrs  bleed 

In  the  good  time  coming. 
Religion  shall  be  shorn  of  pride. 

And  flourish  all  the  stronger ; 
And  charity  shall  trim  her  lamp ; — 
Wait  a  little  longer. 

There's  a  good  time  coming,  boys, 

A  good  time  coming  : 
And  a  poor  man's  family 
Shall  not  be  h  s  misery 

In  the  good  time  coming. 


LABOR  AND    REFORM. 


299 


Every'  child  shall  be  a  help 
To  make  his  right  arm  stronger ; 

The  happier  he  the  more  he  has  ; — 
Wait  a  little  longer. 

There's  a  good  time  coming,  boys, 

A  good  time  coming : 
Little  children  shall  not  toil 
Under,  or  above,  the  soil 

In  the  good  time  coming; 
But  shall  play  in  healthful  fields 

Till  limbs  and  mind  grow  stronger  ; 
And  every  one  shall  read  and  write  ; — 

Wait  a  little  longer. 

There's  a  good  time  coming,  boys, 

A  good  time  coming  : 
The  people  shall  be  temperate, 
And  shall  love  instead  of  hate, 

In  the  good  lime  coming. 
They  shall  use,  and  not  abuse. 

And  make  all  virtue  stronger ; 
The  reformation  has  begun  ; — 

Wait  a  little  longer. 

There's  a  good  time  coming,  boys, 

A  good  time  coming  : 
Let  us  aid  it  all  we  can. 
Every  woman,  everj'  man, 

The  good  time  coming. 
Smallest  helps,  if  rightly  given. 

Make  the  impulse  stronger  ; 
'Twill  be  strong  enough  one  day  ; — 

Wait  a  little  longer. 

Charles  Mackay. 


Anon  it  faints  and  falls  in  deadly  strife, 

Leaving  us  stunned,  and  stricken,  and  alone  ; 
But  ah  !  we  do  not  die  with  those  we  mourn — 
This,  also,  can  be  borne. 

Behold,  we  live  through  all  things — famine,  thirst. 

Bereavement,  pain,  all  grief  and  misery. 
All  woe  and  sorrow ;  life  inflicts  its  worst 
On  soul  and  body — but  we  cannot  die. 
Though  we  be  sick,  and  tired,  and  faint,  and  worn  ; 
Lo  !  all  things  can  be  borne. 

Elizabeth  Akers  Allen. 


ENDURANCE. 

'  OW  much  the  heart  may  bear,  and  yet  not  break ! 
How  much  the  flesh  may  suffer,  and  not  die  ! 
I  question  much  if  any  pain  or  ache 
Of  soul  or  body  brings  our  end  more  nigh. 
Death  chooses  his  own  time  ;  till  that  is  worn. 
All  evils  may  be  borne. 

We  shrink  and  shudder  at  the  surgeon's  knife  ; 

Each  nerve  recoiling  from  the  cruel  steel. 
Whose  edge  seems  searching  for  the  quivering  life ; 

Yet  to  our  sense  the  bitter  pangs  reveal 
That  still,  although  the  trembling  flesh  be  torn. 
This,  also,  can  be  borne. 

We  see  a  sorrow  rising  in  our  way. 

And  try  to  flee  from  the  approaching  ill ; 

We  seek  some  small  escape—  we  weep  and  pray — 
But  when  the  blow  falls,  then  our  hearts  are  still, 

Not  that  the  pain  is  of  its  sharpness  shorn, 
But  that  it  can  be  borne. 

We  wind  our  life  about  another  life — 
We  hold  it  closer,  dearer  than  our  own — 


LEARN  TO  SWEEP. 

NCE,  in  a  city's  crowded  street. 
With  broom  in  hand,  an  urchin  stood ; 
No  boots  inclosed  the  little  feet. 
Though  winter  chilled  the  infant  blood ; 
And  yet  he  worked,  the  little  man. 
As  only  youthful  heroes  can, 
And  as  he  toiled  he  cheerful  sang : 
"  The  noblest  oak  was  once  a  seed. 
The  choicest  flower  was  but  a  weed, 
Unpinioned  once  the  eaglet's  wing, 
The  river  but  a  trickling  spring, 
The  swiftest  foot  must  learn  to  creep, 
The  proudest  man  must  learn  to  sweep." 

Anon  some  passing  idlers  sought 
The  sweeper  from  his  toil  to  shame. 
To  scorn  the  noble  worker's  thought. 
And  quench  the  young  aspiring  flame  ; 
No  answer  gave  the  hero  back. 
But  to  and  fro  he  whisked  the  broom. 
And  shouted  as  he  cleared  the  track : 
"  The  noblest  oak  was  once  a  seed. 
The  choicest  flower  was  but  a  weed, 
Unpinioned  once  the  eaglet's  wing, 
The  river  but  a  trickling  spring. 
The  swiftest  foot  must  learn  to  creep, 
The  proudest  man  must  learn  to  sweep." 

H.  S.  Brooks. 


RHYMES  FOR  HARD  TIMES. 

OURAGE,  brother !  do  not  stumble. 
Though  thy  path  be  dark  as  night, 
There's  a  star  to  guide  the  humble  ; 
"  Trust  in  God,  and  do  the  right." 

Though  the  road  be  long  and  drear>'. 
And  the  end  be  out  of  sight ; 

Foot  it  bravely,  strong  or  weary, 
"  Trust  in  God,  and  do  tlie  right" 

Perish  policy  and  cunning ; 

Perish  all  that  fears  the  light, 
Whether  losing,  whether  winning, 

"  Trust  in  God,  and  do  the  right." 


300 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


Shun  all  forms  of  guiltj^  passion, 
Fiends  can  look  like  angels  bright. 

Heed  no  custom,  school  or  fashion, 
"  Trust  in  God,  and  do  the  right" 

Norman  M'Leod. 


THE  MINER. 

'HE  eastern  sky  is  blushing  red, 
The  distant  hilltop  glowing  ; 
The  brook  is  murmuring  in  its  bed, 
In  idle  frolics  flowing  ; 
'Tis  time  the  pickaxe  and  the  spade, 

And  iron  "torn"  were  ringing. 
And  with  ourselves,  the  mountain  stream, 
A  song  of  labor  singing. 

The  mountain  air  is  cool  and  fresh. 

Unclouded  skies  bend  o'er  us. 
Broad  placers,  rich  in  hidden  gold, 

Lie  temptingly  before  us  ; 
We  ask  no  magic  Midas'  wand, 

Nor  wizard-rod  divining. 
The  pickaxe,  spade  and  brawny  hand 

Are  sorcerers  in  mining. 

When  labor  closes  with  the  day, 

To  simple  fare  returning, 
We  gather  in  a  merry  group 

Around  the  camp-fires  burning; 
The  mountain  sod  our  couch  at  night, 

The  stars  shine  bright  above  us, 
We  think  of  home  and  fall  asleep, 

To  dream  of  those  who  love  us. 

John  Swift. 

A  LANCASHIRE  DOXOLOGY. 

Some  cotton  had  lately  been  imported  into  Farringdon,  where 
the  mills  had  been  closed  for  a  considerable  time.  The  people, 
who  were  previously  in  the  deepest  distress,  went  out  to  meet  the 
cotton:  the  women  wept  over  the  bales  and  kissed  them,  and 
finally  satig  the  Doxology  over  them. 

^ RAISE  God  from  whom  all  blessings  flow," 
Praise  him  who  sendeth  joy  and  woe. 
The  Lord  who  takes,  the  Lord  who  gives, 
O,  praise  him,  all  that  dies,  and  lives. 


Ours  is  no  wisdom  of  the  wise, 
We  have  no  deep  philosophies  ; 
Childlike  we  take  both  kiss  and  rod, 
For  he  who  loveth  knoweth  God. 

Dinah  Maria  Mulock  Craik. 


ii 


F 


He  opens  and  he  shuts  his  hand, 
But  why  we  cannot  understand  : 
Pours  and  dries  up  His  mercies'  flood, 
And  yet  is  still  All-perfect  Good. 

We  fathom  not  the  mighty  plan, 
The  mystery  of  God  and  man  ; 
We  women,  when  afflictions  come, 
We  only  suffer  and  are  dumb. 

And  when,  the  tempest  passing  by. 
He  gleams  out,  sunlike,  through  our  sky. 
We  look  up,  and  through  black  clouds  riven 
We  recognize  the  smile  of  Heaven. 


THE  DRUNKARD'S  DAUGHTER. 

,  O,  feel  what  I  have  felt, 

Go,  bear  what  I  have  borne  ; 
Sink  'neath  a  blow  a  father  dealt, 
And  the  cold,  proud  world's  scorn ; 
Thus  struggle  on  from  year  to  year, 
Thy  sole  relief— the  scalding  tear. 

Go,  weep  as  I  have  wept. 

O'er  a  loved  father's  fall, 
See  every  cherished  promise  swept — 

Youth's  sweetness  turned  to  gall  ; 
Hope's  faded  flowers  strewed  all  the  way 
That  led  me  up  to  woman's  day. 

Go,  kneel  as  I  have  knelt ; 

Implore,  beseech,  and  pray. 
Strive  the  besotted  heart  to  melt. 

The  downward  course  to  stay  ; 
Be  cast  with  bitter  curse  aside — 
Thy  prayers  burlesqued,  thy  tears  defied. 

Go,  stand  where  I  have  stood. 

And  see  the  strong  man  bow  ; 
With  gnashing  teeth,  lips  bathed  in  blood, 

And  cold  and  livid  brow  ; 
Go,  catch  his  wandering  glance,  and  see 
There  mirrored,  his  soul's  misery. 

Go,  hear  what  I  have  heard — 

The  sobs  of  sad  despair, 
As  memory's  feeling  fount  hath  stirred, 

And  its  revealings  tliere 
Have  told  him  what  he  might  have  been, 
Had  he  the  drunkard's  fate  foreseen. 

Go  to  my  mother's  side, 

And  her  crushed  spirit  cheer  ; 
Thine  own  deep  anguish  hide. 

Wipe  from  her  cheek  the  tear, 
Mark  her  dimmed  eye,  her  furrowed  brow, 
The  gray  that  streaks  her  dark  hair  now  ; 
Her  toil-worn  frame,  her  trembling  limb, 
And  trace  the  ruin  back  to  him 
Whose  plighted  faith,  in  early  youth, 
Promised  eternal  love  and  truth  ; 
But  who,  forsworn,  hath  yielded  up 
That  promise  to  the  deadly  cup. 
And  led  her  down  from  love  and  light. 
From  all  that  made  her  pathway  briglit, 
And  chained  her  there  'mid  want  and  strife. 
That  lowly  thing,  a  drunkard's  wife  ! 
And  stamped  on  childhood's  brow  so  mild. 
That  withering  blight,  a  drunkard's  child  ! 


LABOR  AND   REFORM. 


301 


Go,  hear,  and  see,  and  feel,  and  know, 
All  that  my  soul  hath  felt  and  known. 

Then  look  upon  the  wine-cup's  glow  ; 
See  if  its  brightness  can  atone  ; 

Think  if  its  flavor  you  will  trj', 

If  all  proclaimed,  "  'Tis  drink  and  die  ! " 

Tell  me  I  hate  the  bowl 

Hate  is  a  feeble  word  : 
I  loathe,  abhor — my  very  soul 

With  strong  disgust  is  stirred 
When'er  I  see,  or  hear,  or  tell, 
Of  the  dark  beverage  of  hell ! 


THE  SONG  OF  STEAM. 

'  ARNESS  me  down  with  your  iron  bands, 
Be  sure  of  your  curb  and  rein. 
For  I  scorn  the  strength  of  your  puny  hands 
As  a  tempest  scorns  a  chain. 
How  I  laughed  as  I  lay  concealed  from  sight 

For  many  a  countless  hour. 
At  the  childish  boasts  of  human  might, 
And  the  pride  of  human  power  ! 

When  I  saw  an  army  upon  the  land, 

A  navy  upon  the  seas. 
Creeping  along,  a  snail-like  band, 

Or  wailing  the  wayward  breeze  ; 
When  I  marked  the  peasant  faintly  reel 

With  the  toil  that  he  daily  bore, 
As  he  feebly  turned  the  tardy  wheel, 

Or  tugged  at  the  weary  oar ; 

When  I  measured  the  panting  courser's  speed. 

The  flight  of  the  carrier  dove, 
As  they  bore  the  law  a  king  decreed, 

Or  the  lines  of  impatient  love, 
I  could  but  think  how  the  world  would  feel, 

As  these  were  outstripped  afar, 
When  I  should  be  bound  to  the  rushing  keel, 

Or  chained  to  the  flying  car. 

Ha!  ha!  ha!  they  found  me  at  last. 

They  invited  me  forth  at  length, 
And  I  rushed  to  my  throne  with  a  thunder  blast, 

And  laughed  in  my  iron  strength  ! 
O,  then  ye  saw  a  wondrous  change 

On  the  earth  and  ocean  wide, 
Where  now  my  fiery  armies  range, 

Nor  wait  lor  wind  nor  tide  ! 

Hurrah!  hurrah!  the  waters  o'er, 

The  mountain's  steep  decline; 
Time — space — have  yielded  to  my  power : 

The  world,  the  world  is  mine  ! 
The  rivers  the  sun  hath  earliest  blest. 

Or  those  where  his  beams  decline. 
The  giant  streams  of  the  queenly  West, 

Or  the  Orient  floods  divine. 


The  ocean  pales  wherever  I  sweep 

To  hear  my  strength  rejoice. 
And  monsters  of  the  briny  deep 

Cower  trembling  at  my  voice. 
I  carry  the  wealth  of  the  lord  of  earth, 

The  thoughts  of  his  god-like  mind  ; 
The  wind  lags  after  my  going  forth. 

The  lightning  is  left  behind. 

In  the  darksome  depths  of  the  fathomless  mine 

My  tireless  arm  doth  play. 
Where  the  rocks  never  saw  the  sun's  decline. 

Or  the  dawn  of  the  glorious  day  ; 
I  bring  earth's  glittering  jewels  up 

From  the  hidden  caves  below. 
And  I  make  the  fountain's  granite  cup 

With  a  crystal  gush  o'erflow. 

I  blow  the  bellows,  I  forge  the  steel. 

In  all  the  shops  of  trade ; 
I  hammer  the  ore  and  turn  the  wheel 

Where  my  arms  of  strength  are  made  ; 
I  manage  the  furnace,  the  mill,  the  mint, 

I  carry,  I  spin,  I  weave. 
And  all  my  doings  I  put  into  print 

On  every  Saturday  eve. 

I've  no  muscles  to  weary,  no  brains  to  decay. 

No  bones  to  be  laid  on  the  shelf. 
And  soon  I  intend  you  may  go  and  play. 

While  I  manage  the  world  myself 
But  harness  me  down  with  your  iron  bands. 

Be  sure  of  your  curb  and  rein. 
For  I  scorn  the  strength  of  your  puny  hands 

As  the  tempest  scorns  the  chain. 

George  W.  Cutter. 


DUTY. 


SLEPT  and  dreamed  that  life  was  beauty ; 
I  woke  and  found  that  life  was  duty : 
Was  then  thy  dream  a  shadowy  lie  ? 
Toil  on,  sad  heart,  courageously. 

And  thou  shalt  find  thy  dream  to  be 
A  noonday  light  and  truth  to  thee. 

TRUE  REST. 

■  WEET  is  the  pleasure 
Itself  cannot  spoil  ! 
Is  not  true  leisure 
One  with  true  toil  ? 

Thou  that  wouldst  taste  it. 

Still  do  thy  best ; 

Use  it,  not  waste  it — 

Else  'tis  no  rest. 

Wouldst  behold  beauty " 
Near  thee  ?  all  round  ? 

Only  hath  duty 
Such  a  sight  found. 


302 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


t,i:' 


Rest  is  not  quitting 

The  busy  career ; 
Rest  is  the  fitting 

Of  self  to  its  sphere. 

'Tis  the  brook's  motion, 

Clear  without  strife, 
Fleeing  to  ocean 

After  its  life. 

Deeper  devotion 

Nowhere  hath  knelt ; 
Fuller  emotion 

Heart  never  felt. 

*Tis  loving  and  serving 

The  highest  and  best ; 
'Tis  onwards  !  unswerving — 

And  that  is  true  rest. 

John  Sullivan  Dwight. 

GOOD  NIGHT. 

,OOD  night, 

To  each  weary,  toil-worn  wight ! 
Now  the  day  so  sweetly  closes, 
Every  aching  brow  reposes 
Peacefully  till  morning  light. 
Good  night ! 

Home  to  rest ! 
Close  the  eye  and  calm  the  breast ; 
Stillness  through  the  streets  is  stealing, 
And  the  watchman's  horn  is  pealing, 
And  the  night  calls  sofdy,  "  Haste  ! 
Home  to  rest !  " 

Sweetly  sleep  ! 
Eden's  breezes  round  ye  sweep. 
O'er  the  peace-forsaken  lover 
Let  the  darling  image  hover, 
As  he  lies  in  transport  deep. 
Sweetly  sleep ! 

So,  good  night ! 
Slumber  on  till  morning  light ; 
Slumber  till  another  morrow 
Brings  its  stores  of  joy  and  sorrow; 
Fearless,  in  the  Father's  sight. 

Slumber  on.     Good  night ! 

Charles  T.  Brooks. 


<S 


LABOR  SONG. 

'H  !  little  they  know  of  true  happiness,  they 
whom  satiety  fills, 
Who,  flung  on  the  rich  breast  of  luxury,  eat 
of  the  rankness  that  kills. 
Ah  !  little  they  know  of  the  blessedness  toil-purchased 

slumber  enjoys 
Who,  stretched  on  the  hard  rack  of  indolence,  taste  of 
the  sleep  that  destroys  ; 


Nothing  to  hope  for,  or  labor  foi  ;  nothing  to  sigh  for, 

or  gain ; 
Nothing  to  light  in  its  vividness,  lightning-like,  bosom 

and  brain ; 
Nothing  to  break  life's  monotony,  rippling  it  o'er  with 

its  breath ; — 
Nothing  but  dullness  and  lethargy,  weariness,  sorrow, 

and  death  I 

But  blessM  that  child  of  humanity,  happiest  man 
among  men. 

Who,  with  hammer  or  chisel  or  pencil,  with  rudder  or 
ploughshare  or  pen, 

Laboreth  ever  and  ever  with  hope  through  the  morn- 
ing of  life. 

Winning  home  and  its  darling  divinities — love-wor- 
shipped children  and  wife. 

Round  swings  the  hammer  of  industry,  quickly  the 
sharp  chisel  rings, 

And  the  heart  of  the  toiler  has  throbbings  that  stir 
not  the  bosom  of  kings — 

He  the  true  ruler  and  conqueror,  he  the  true  king  of 
his  race. 

Who  nerveth  his  arm  for  life's  combat,  and  looks  the 
strong  world  in  the  face. 

Denis  Florence  MacCarthy. 


m 


ODE  TO  THE  HARVEST  MOON. 

CON  of  harvest,  herald  mild 
Of  plenty,  rustic  labor's  child, 
Hail !  oh,  hail !  I  greet  thy  beam, 
•  As  soft  it  trembles  o'er  the  stream, 

And  gilds  tlie  straw-thatched  hamlet  wide, 
Where  innocence  and  peace  reside ; 
'Tis  thou  that  glad'st  with  joy  the  rustic  throng, 
Promptest  the  tripping  dance,  th'  exhilarating  song. 

Moon  of  harvest,  I  do  love 

O'er  the  uplands  now  to  rove, 

While  thy  modest  ray  serene 

Gilds  the  wide  surrounding  scene; 

And  to  watch  thee  riding  high 

In  the  blue  vault  of  the  sky, 
Where  no  thin  vapor  intercepts  thy  ray. 
But  in  unclouded  majesty  thou  walkest  on  thy  way. 

Pleasing  'tis,  O  modest  moon  ! 
Now  the  night  is  at  her  noon, 
'Neath  thy  sway  to  musing  lie. 
While  around  the  zephyrs  sigh. 
Fanning  soft  the  sun-tanned  wheat, 
Ripened  by  the  summers  heat ; 
Picturing  all  the  rustic's  joy 
When  boundless  plenty  greets  his  eye, 

And  thinking  soon. 

Oh,  modest  moon  ! 
How  many  a  female  eye  will  roam 

Along  the  road. 

To  see  the  load. 
The  last  dear  load  of  harvest  home. 


LABOR  AND    REFORM. 


303 


Storms  and  tempests,  floods  and  rains, 

Stern  despoilers  of  the  plains, 

Hence  away,  the  season  flee. 

Foes  to  light-heart  jollity ; 

May  no  winds  careering  high, 

Drive  the  clouds  along  the  sky  ; 
But  may  all  nature  smile  with  aspect  boon, 
When  in  the  heavens  thou  show'st  thy  face,  oh,  har- 
vest moon ! 

'Neath  yon  lowly  roof  he  lies, 
The  husbandman,  with  sleep-sealed  eyes ; 
He  dreams  of  crowded  barns,  and  round 
The  yard  he  hears  the  flail  resound  ; 
Oh  !  may  no  hurricane  destroy 
His  visionary  views  of  joy  : 
God  of  the  winds  !  oh,  hear  his  humble  prayer. 
And  while  the  moon  of  harvest  shines,  thy  blustering 
whirlwind  spare. 

Sons  of  luxury,  to  you 

Leave  I  sleep's  dull  power  to  woo  : 

Press  ye  still  the  downy  bed, 

While  feverish  dreams  surround  your  head  ; 

I  will  seek  the  woodland  glade, 

PCTietrate  the  thickest  shade. 

Wrapt  in  contemplation's  dreams. 

Musing  high  on  holy  themes. 

While  on  the  gale 

Shall  softly  sail 
The  nightingale's  enchanting  tune, 

And  oft  my  eyes 

Shall  grateful  rise 
To  thee,  the  modest  harvest  moon  ! 

Henry  Kirke  White. 


SONG  OF  THE  PEASANT  WIFE. 

eOME,  Patrick,  clear  up  the  storms  on  your 
brow  ; 
You  were  kind  to  me  once — will  you  frown 
on  me  now  ? — 
Shall  the  storm  settle  here,  when  from  heaven  it  de- 
parts. 
And  the  cold  from  without  finds  it  way  to  our  hearts  ? 
No,  Patrick,  no  !  sure  the  wintriest  weather 
Is  easily  borne  when  we  bear  it  together. 

Though  the  rain's  dropping  through,  from  the  roof  to 

the  floor. 
And  the  wind  whistles  free,  where  there  once  was  a 

door. 
Can  the  rain,  or  the  snow,  or  the  storm  wash  away 
All  the  warm  vows  we  made  in  our  love's  early  day? 
No,  Patrick,  no  !  sure  the  dark  stormy  weather 
Is  easily  borne,  if  we  bear  it  together. 

When  you  stole  out  to  woo  me  when  labor  was  done, 
And  the  day  that  was  closing  to  us  seemed  begun. 
Did  we  care  if  the  sunset  was  bright  on  the  flowers, 


Or  if  we  crept  out  amid  darkness  and  showers  ? 

No,  Patrick  !  we  talked,  while  we  braved  the  wild 

weather, 
Of  all  we  could  bear,  if  we  bore  it  together. 

Soon,  soon,  will  these  dark  dreary  days  be  gone  by. 
And  our  hearts  be  lit  up  with  a  beam  from  the  sky  ! 
Oh,  let  not  our  spirits,  embittered  with  pain, 
Be  dead  to  the  sunshine  that  came  to  us  then  ! 
Heart  in  heart,  hand  in  hand,   let  us  welcome  the 

weather, 
And,  sunshine  or  storm,  we  will  bear  it  together. 
Caroline  Elizabeth  Norton. 


n 


A  SHEPHERD'S  LIFE. 

EGLECTED  now  the  early  daisy  lies ; 

Nor  thou,  pale  primrose,  bloom'st  the  only 

prize  ; 

Advancing  spring  profusely  spreads  abroad 
Flowers  of  all  hues,  with  sweetest  fragrance  stored  ; 
Where'er  she  treads,  love  gladdens  every  plain, 
Delight  on  tiptoe  bears  her  lucid  train  ; 
Sweet  hope  with  conscious  brow  before  her  flies, 
Anticipating  wealth  from  summer  skies  ; 
All  nature  feels  her  renovating  sway  ; 
The  sheep-fed  pasture,  and  the  meadow  gp.y  ; 
And  trees,  and  shrubs,  no  longer  budding  seen. 
Display  the  new-grown  branch  of  lighter  green ; 
On  airy  downs  the  shepherd  idling  lies. 
And  sees  to-morrow  in  the  marbled  skies. 
Here,  then,  my  soul,  thy  darling  theme  pursue, 
For  every  day  was  Giles  a  shepherd  too. 

Small  was  his  charge  :  no  wilds  had  they  to  roam  : 
But  bright  inclosures  circling  round  their  home. 
No  yellow-blossomed  furze,  nor  stubborn  thorn. 
The  heath's  rough  produce,  had  their  fleeces  torn  : 
Yet  ever  roving,  ever  seeking  thee, 
Enchanting  spirit,  dear  variety  ! 
O  happy  tenants,  prisoners  of  a  day  ! 
Released  to  ease,  to  pleasure,  and  to  play ; 
Indulged  through  every  field  by  turns  to  range. 
And  taste  them  all  in  one  continual  change. 
For  though  luxuriant  their  grassy  food, 
Sheep  long  confined  but  loathe  the  present  good  ; 
Bleating  around  the  homeward  gate  they  meet. 
And  starve,  and  pine,  with  plenty  at  their  feet. 
Loosed  from  the  winding  lane,  a  joyful  throng, 
See,  o'er  yon  pasture,  how  they  pour  along ! 
Giles  round  their  boundaries  takes  his  usual  stroll ; 
Sees  every  pass  secured,  and  fences  whole  ; 
High  fences,  proud  to  charm  the  gazing  eye. 
Where  many  a  nestling  first  essays  to  fly  ; 
Where  blows  the  woodbine,  faintly  streaked  with  red, 
And  rests  on  every  bough  its  tender  head  ; 
Round  the  young  ash  its  twining  branches  meet. 
Or  crown  the  hawthorn  with  its  odors  sweet 

Robert  Bloomfield. 


304 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


'/(■--■ 


YOUR  MISSION. 

'  F  you  cannot  on  the  ocean 

Sail  among  the  swiftest  fleet, 
Rocking  on  the  highest  billows, 
Laughing  at  the  storms  you  meet, 
You  can  stand  among  the  sailors, 

Anchored  yet  within  the  bay, 
You  can  lend  a  hand  to  help  them. 
As  they  launch  their  boats  away. 

If  you  are  too  weak  to  journey. 

Up  the  mountain  steep  and  high, 
You  can  stand  within  the  valley. 

While  the  multitudes  go  by. 
You  can  chant  in  happy  measure. 

As  they  slowly  pass  along ; 
Though  they  may  forget  the  singer, 

They  will  not  forget  the  song. 

If  you  have  not  gold  and  silver 

Ever  ready  to  command, 
If  you  cannot  towards  the  needy 

Reach  an  ever  open  hand, 
You  can  visit  the  afflicted. 

O'er  the  erring  you  can  weep, 
You  can  be  a  true  disciple,  • 

Sitting  at  the  Saviour's  feet. 

If  you  cannot  in  the  conflict. 

Prove  youself  a  soldier  true, 
if  where  fire  and  smoke  are  thickest, 

There's  no  work  for  you  to  do, 
When  the  battle-field  is  silent. 

You  can  go  with  careful  tread. 
You  can  bear  away  the  wounded. 

You  can  cover  up  the  dead. 

Do  not  then  stand  idly  waiting 

For  some  greater  work  to  do, 
Fortune  is  a  lazy  goddess. 

She  will  never  come  to  you. 
Go  and  toil  in  any  vineyard. 

Do  not  fear  to  do  or  dare. 
If  you  want  a  field  of  labor, 

You  can  find  it  anywhere. 


KNOCKED  ABOUT, 

'HY  don't  I  work?    Well,  sir,  will  you. 

Right  here  on  the  spot,  give  me  suthin'  to  do? 
Work  ?    Wliy,  sir,  I  don't  want  no  more 
'N  a  chance  in  any  man's  shop  or  store ; 

That's  what  I'm  lookin'  for  every  day. 

But  thar  ain't  no  jobs ;  well,  what  d'  ye  say? 

Hain't  got  nothin'  at  present !    Just  so  ; 

That's  how  it  always  is,  I  know  ! 

Fellers  like  me  ain't  wanted  much  ; 
Folks  are  gen'rally  jealous  of  such  ; 
Thinks  they  ain't  the  right  sort  o'  stuff- 
Blessed  if  it  isn't  a  kind  o'  rough 


On  a  man  to  have  folks  hintin'  belief 
That  he  ain't  to  be  trusted  mor  'n  a  thief. 
When  p'r'aps  his  fingers  are  cleaner  far 
'N  them  o'  chaps  that  talk  so  are. 

Got  a  look  o'  the  sea  !    Well,  I  'xpect  that's  so  ; 

Had  a  hankerin'  that  way  some  years  ago. 

And  run  off;  I  shipped  in  a  whaler  fust, 

And  got  cast  away  ;  but  that  warn't  the  wust ; 

Took  fire,  sir,  next  time,  we  did,  and — well, 

We  blazed  up  till  everything  standin'  fell. 

And  then  me  and  Tom — my  mate — and  some  more, 

Got  off,  with  a  notion  of  goin'  ashore. 

But  thar  warn't  no  shore  to  see  about  thar. 

So  we  drifted  and  drifted  everywhar 

For  a  week,  and  then  all  but  Tom  and  me 

Was  food  for  the  sharks  or  down  in  the  sea. 

But  we  prayed — me  and  Tom — the  best  we  could. 

For  a  sail.     It  come,  and  at  last  we  stood 

On  old  'arth  once  more,  and  the  captain  told 

Us  we  was  ashore  in  the  land  o'  gold. 

Gold !    W^e  didn't  get  much.     But  we  struck 
For  the  mines,  of  course,  and  tried  our  luck. 
'T  warn't  bad  at  the  start,  but  things  went  wrong 
Pooty  soon,  for  one  night  thar  come  along. 
While  we  was  asleep,  some  red-skin  chaps, 
And  they  made  things  lively  round  thar-  perhaps  ! 
Anyhow,  we  lefi:  mighty  quick — Tom  and  me, 
And  we  didn't  go  back — kind  o'  risky,  you  see ! 

By'm-by,  sir,  the  war  come  on,  and  then 
We  'listed.     Poor  Tom  !     I  was  nigh  him  when 
It  all  happened.     He  looked  up  and  sez,  sez  he, 
"  Bill,  it's  come  to  partin'  'twixt  you  and  me, 
Old  chap.     I  hain't  much  to  leave — here,  this  knife- 
Stand  to  your  colors.  Bill,  while  you  have  life  !  " 
That  was  all.     Yes,  got  wounded  myself,  sir,  here. 
And — I'm  pensioned  on  water  and  air  a  year ! 

It  ain't  much  to  thank  for  that  I'm  alive, 
Knockin'  about  like  this —    What,  a  five  ! 
That's  suthin'  han'some,  now,  that  is.     I'm  blest 
If  things  don't  quite  frequent  turn  out  for  the  best 
Arter  all !    A  V  !    Hi  1    Luck !    It's  far  more ! 
Mister,  I  kind  o'  liked  the  looks  o'  your  store. 
You're  a  trump,  sir,  a  reg— Eh?    Oh,  all  right! 
I'm  off — but  you  are,  sir,  a  trump,  honor  bright ! 

D.\NIEL   CONNOLY. 


TUBAL  CAIN. 

LD  Tubal  Cain  was  a  man  of  might 
In  the  days  when  the  earth  was  young ; 
By  the  fierce  red  light  of  his  furnace  bright. 
The  strokes  of  his  hammer  rung. 

As  he  lifted  high  his  brawny  hand 

On  the  iron  glowing  clear. 

Till  the  sparks  rushed  out  in  scarlet  showers 

As  he  fashioned  the  sword  and  spear. 


LABOR  AND   REFORM. 


305 


And  he  sang,  "Hurrah  for  my  handiwork ! 
Hurrah  for  the  hand  that  shall  wield  them  well ! 
For  he  shall  be  king  and  lord." 

To  Tubal  Cain  came  many  a  one, 

As  he  wrought  by  his  roaring  fire. 

And  each  one  prayed  for  a  strong  steel  blade, 

As  the  crown  of  his  desire ; 

And  he  made  them  weapons  sharp  and  strong, 

Till  they  shouted  loud  in  glee, 

And  gave  him  gifts  of  pearls  and  gold, 

And  they  sang,  "  Hurrah  for  Tubal  Cain, 

Who  hath  given  us  strength  anew  ! 

Hurrah  for  the  smith  !  hurrah  for  the  fire  ! 

And  hurrah  for  the  metal  true  ! " 

But  a  sudden  change  came  o'er  his  heart 

Ere  the  setting  of  the  sun. 

And  Tubal  Cain  was  filled  with  pain 

For  the  evil  he  had  done. 

He  saw  that  men,  with  rage  and  hate, 

Made  war  upon  their  kind  ; 

That  the  land  was  red  with  the  blood  they  shed 

In  their  lust  for  carnage  blind. 

And  he  said,  "  Alas,  that  I  ever  made, 

Or  that  skill  of  mine  should  plan, 

The  spear  and  the  sword,  for  men  whose  joy 

Is  to  slay  their  fellow-man  !  " 

20 


And  for  many  a  day  old  Tubal  Cain    • 

Sat  brooding  o'er  his  woe  ; 

And  his  hand  forbore  to  smite  the  ore. 

And  his  furnace  smouldered  low ; 

But  he  rose  at  last  with  a  cheerful  face, 

And  a  bright  courageous  eye. 

And  bared  his  strong  right  arm  for  work, 

While  the  quick  flames  mounted  high  ; 

And  he  sang,  "  Hurrah  for  my  handiwork  !  " 

And  the  red  sparks  lit  the  air — 

"Not  alone  for  the  blade  was  the  bright  steel  made, 

And  he  fashioned  the  first  ploughshare. 

And  men,  taught  wisdom  from  the  past, 

In  friendship  joined  their  hands, 

Hung  the  sword  in  the  hall,  the  spear  on  the  wall, 

And  ploughed  the  willing  lands  ; 

And  sang,  "  Hurrah  for  Tubal  Cain  ! 

Our  stanch  good  friend  is  he  ; 

And,  for  the  ploughshare  and  the  plough, 

To  him  our  praise  shall  be. 

But  while  oppression  lifts  its  head, 

Or  a  tyrant  would  be  lord, 

Though  we  may  thank  him  for  the  plough, 

We'll  not  forget  the  sword." 

Charles  Mackat. 


RURAL  LIFE. 


THE   PLOUGHMAN. 


LEAR  the  brown  path  to  meet 
his  coulter's  gleam ! 
Lo !  on  he  comes,   behind 
his  smoking  team , 
With  toil's  bright  dew-drops  on 

his  sunburnt  brow, 
The  lord  of  earth,  the  hero  of 
the  plough ! 


First  in  the  field  before  the  red- 
dening sun. 
Last  in  tlie  shadows  when  the 

day  is  done. 
Line  after  line,  along  the  burst- 
ing sod, 
Marks  the  broad  acres  where 

his  feet  have  trod. 
Still  where  he  treads  the  stub- 
born clods  divide, 
The  smooth,  fresh  furrow  opens  deep  and  wide ; 
Matted  and  dense  the  tangled  turf  upheaves, 
Mellow  and  dark  the  ridgy  cornfield  cleaves  ; 
Uo  the  steep  hillside,  where  the  laboring  train 
Slants  the  long  track  that  scores  the  level  plain. 
Through  the  moisty  valley,  clogged  with  oozing  clay. 
The  patient  convoy  breaks  its  destined  way ; 
At  every  turn  the  loosening  chains  resound. 
The  swinging  ploughshare  circles  glistening  round. 
Till  the  wide  field  one  billowy  waste  appears. 
And  wearied  hands  unbind  the  panting  steers. 

These  are  the  hands  whose  sturdy  labor  brings 
The  peasant's  food,  the  golden  pomp  of  kings  ; 
This  is  the  page  whose  letters  shall  be  seen. 
Changed  by  the  sun  to  words  of  living  green  ; 
This  is  the  scholar  whose  immortal  pen 
Spells  the  first  lesson  hunger  taught  to  men  ; 
These  are  the  lines  that  Heaven-commanded  toil 
Shows  on  his  deed— the  charter  of  the  soil ! 

O  gracious  Mother,  whose  benignant  breast 
Wakes  us  to  life,  and  lulls  us  all  to  rest. 
How  thy  sweet  features,  kind  to  every  clime, 
Mock  with  their  smile  the  wrinkled  front  of  time  ! 
We  stain  thy  flowers — thy  blossom  o'er  the  dead  ; 
We  rend  thy  bosom,  and  it  gives  us  bread  ; 
O'er  the  red  field  that  trampling  strife  has  torn. 
Waves  the  green  plumage  of  thy  tasselled  com ; 
Our  maddening  conflicts  scar  thy  fairest  plain, 
Still  thy  soft  answer  is  the  growing  grain. 
Yet,  O  our  Mother,  while  uncounted  charms 
Steal  round  our  hearts  in  thine  embracing  arms, 


Let  not  our  virtues  in  thy  love  decay, 

And  thy  fond  sweetness  waste  our  streng^  away. 

No,  by  these  hills  whose  banners  now  displayed 
In  blazing  cohorts  autumn  has  arrayed  ; 
By  yon  twin  summits,  on  whose  splintery  crests 
The  tossing  hemlocks  hold  the  eagles'  nests  ; 
By  these  fair  plains  the  mountain  circle  screens, 
And  feeds  with  streamlets  from  its  dark  ravines — 
True  to  their  home,  these  faithful  arms  shall  toil 
To  crown  with  peace  their  own  untainted  soil ; 
And,  true  to  God,  to  freedom,  to  mankind. 
If  her  chained  ban-dc^s  Faction  shall  unbind. 
These  stately  forms,  that,  bending  even  now. 
Bowed  their  strong  manhood  to  the  humble  plough, 
Shall  rise  erect,  the  guardians  of  the  land. 
The  same  stern  iron  in  the  same  right  hand. 
Till  o'er  their  hills  the  shouts  of  triumph  run — 
The  sword  has  rescued  what  the  ploughshare  won  ! 
Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 


THE  MOWERS. 

'HE  sunburnt  mowers  are  in  the  swath — 
Swing,  swing,  swing ! 
The  towering  lilies  loath 
f"  Tremble  and  totter  and  fall ; 

The  meadow-rue 
Dashes  its  tassels  of  golden  dew ; 
And  the  keen  blade  sweeps  o'er  all — 
Swing,  swing,  swing ! 

The  flowers,  the  berries,  the  feathered  grass, 

Are  thrown  in  a  smothered  mass  ; 
Hastens  away  the  butterfly  ; 
With  half  their  burden  the  brown  bees  hie  ; 

And  the  meadow-lark  shrieks  distrest. 
And  leaves  the  poor  younglings  all  in  the  nest. 

The  daisies  clasp  and  fall ; 
And  totters  the  jacob's-ladder  tall. 
Weaving  and  winding  and  curving  lithe. 
O'er  plumy  hillocks— through  dewy  hollows, 
His  subtile  scythe 

The  nodding  mower  follows — 
Swing,  swing,  swing ! 

Anon,  the  chiming  whetstones  ring— • 
Ting-a-ling !  ting-aling ! 
And  the  mower  now 
Pauses  and  wipes  his  beaded  brow. 
A  moment  he  scans  the  fleckless  sky ; 
A  moment,  the  fish-hawk  soaring  high  ; 
And  watches  the  swallows  dip  and  dive 
Anear  and  afar. 


(306) 


RURAL   LIFE. 


307 


They  whisk  and  glimmer,  and  chatter  and  strive ; 
What  do  they  gossip  together  ? 
Cunning  fellows  they  are, 
Wise  prophets  to  him  ! 
"  Higher  or  lower  they  circle  and  skim — 
Fair  or  foul  to-morrow's  hay-weather !  " 

Tallest  primroses,  or  loftiest  daisies, 
Not  a  steel-blue  feather 
Of  slim  wing  grazes  : 
'  Fear  not!  fear  not ! "  cry  the  swallows. 
Each  mower  tightens  his  snath-ring's  wedge, 
And  his  finger  daintily  follows 
The  long  blade's  tickle-edge  ; 
Softly  the  whetstone's  last  touches  ring — 

Ting-a-ling  !  ting-a-ling  ! 
Like  a  leaf-muffled  bird  in  the  woodland  nigh, 
Faintly  the  fading  echoes  reply — 
Ting-a-ling  !  ting-a-ling  ! 

"  Perchance  the  swallows,  that  flit  in  their  glee, 
Of  to-morrow's  hay-weather  know  little  as  we  ! " 
Says  farmer  Russet.     "  Be  it  hidden  in  shower 
Or  sunshine,  to-morrow  we  do  not  own — 

To-day  is  ours  alone  ! — 
Not  a  twinkle  we'll  waste  of  the  golden  hour. 
Grasp  tightly  the  nibs— give  heel  and  give  toe : — 
Lay  a  goodly  swath,  shaved  smooth  and  low  ! 
Prime  is  the  day- 
Swing,  swing,  swing !" 

Farmer  Russet  is  aged  and  gray — 
Gray  as  the  frost,  but  fresh  as  the  spring. 

Straight  is  he 

As  the  green  fir-tree  ; 

And  with  heart  most  blithe,  and  sinews  lithe, 

He  leads  the  row  with  his  merry  scythe. 

"  Come,  boys  !  strike  up  the  old  song 

While  we  circle  around — 

The  song  we  always  in  haytime  sing — 

And  let  the  woods  ring. 

And  the  echoes  prolong 

The  merry  sound  ! " 

SONG. 

July  is  just  in  the  nick  of  time  ! 

(Hay-weather,  hay-weather ;) 
The  midsummer  month  is  the  golden  prime 
For  haycocks  smelling  of  clover  and  thyme  ; — 

(Swing  all  together !) 
July  is  just  in  the  nick  of  time  ! 

Chorus. 

O,  we'll  make  our  hay  while  the  good  sun  shines- 

We'll  waste  not  a  golden  minute  ! 
No  shadow  of  storm  the  blue  arch  lines  ; 

We'll  waste  not  a  minute— not  a  minute  ! 
For  the  west-wind  is  fair  ; 
O,  the  hay-day  is  rare  ! — 
The  sky  is  without  a  brown  cloud  in  it ! 


June  is  too  early  for  richest  hay  ; 

(Fair  weather,  fair  weather  ;) 
The  corn  stretches  taller  the  livebng  day  ; 
But  grass  is  ever  too  sappy  to  lay ; — 

(Clip  all  together !) 
June  is  too  early  for  richest  hay. 

August's  a  month  that  too  far  goes  by  ; 

(Late  weather,  late  weather  ;) 
Grasshoppers  are  chipper  and  kick  too  high  ! 
And  grass  that's  standing  is  fodder  scorched  dry  ; — 

(?\x\\  all  together !) 
August's  a  month  that  too  far  goes  by. 

July  is  just  in  the  nick  of  time  ! 

(Best  weather,  best  weather  ;) 
The  midsummer  month  is  the  golden  prime 
For  haycocks  smelling  of  clover  and  thyme  ; — 

(Strike  all  together !) 
July  is  just  in  the  nick  of  time  ! 

Still  hiss  the  scythes ! 
Shudder  the  grasses'  defenceless  blades — 

The  lily-throng  writhes  ; 
And,  as  a  phalanx  of  wild-geese  streams, 
Where  the  shore  of  April's  cloudland  gleams, 
On  their  dizzy  way,  in  serried  grades — 

Wing  on  wing,  wing  on  wing — 
The  mowers,  each  a  step  in  advance 
Of  his  fellow,  time  their  stroke  with  a  glance 

Of  swerveless  force ; 
And  far  through  the  meadow  leads  their  course — 

Sw^ng,  swing,  swing ! 

MvRON  B.  Benton. 


THE  SONGS   OF  OUR  FATHERS. 

ING  them  upon  the  sunny  hills, 
When  days  are  long  and  bright, 
And  the  blue  gleam  of  shining  rills 
Is  loveliest  to  the  sight. 
Sing  them  along  the  misty  moor, 

Where  ancient  hunters  roved, 
And  swell  them  through  the  torrent's  roar — 

The  songs  our  fathers  loved  ! 
The  songs  their  souls  rejoiced  to  hear 

When  harps  were  in  the  hall. 
And  each  proud  note  made  lance  and  spear 

Thrill  on  the  bannered  wall : 
The  songs  that  through  our  valleys  green, 

Sent  on  from  age  to  age. 
Like  his  own  river's  voice,  have  been 
The  peasant's  heritage. 

The  reaper  sings  them  when  the  vale 

Is  filled  with  plumy  sheaves  ; 
The  woodman,  by  the  starlight  pale 

Cheered  homeward  through  the  leaves  : 
And  unto  them  the  glancing  oars 

A  joyous  measure  keep, 
Where  the  dark  rocks  that  crest  our  shores 

Dash  back  the  foaming  deep. 


308 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


So  let  it  be  !— a  light  they  shed 

O'er  each  old  fount  and  grove ; 
A  memory  of  the  gentle  dead, 

A  spell  of  lingering  love : 
i^Iurmuring  the  names  of  mighty  men, 

They  bid  our  streams  roll  on. 
And  link  high  thoughts  to  every  glen 

Where  valiant  deeds  were  done. 

Teach  tliem  your  children  round  the  hearth, 

When  evening-fires  burn  clear, 
And  in  the  fields  of  harvest  mirth, 

And  on  the  hills  of  deer  1 
So  shall  each  unforgotten  word. 

When  far  those  loved  ones  roam, 
Call  back  the  hearts  that  once  it  stirred. 

To  cliildhood's  holy  home. 
The  green  woods  of  their  native  land 

Shall  whisper  in  the  strain, 
The  voices  of  their  household  band 

Shall  sweetly  speak  again  : 
The  heathery  heights  in  vision  rise 

Where  like  the  stag  they  roved — 
Sing  to  your  sons  those  melodies, 

The  songs  your  fathers  loved. 

Felicia  Dorothea  Hemans. 


a 


THE  USEFUL  PLOUGH. 

COUNTRY  life  is  sweet ! 
In  moderate  cold  and  heat, 

To  walk  in  the  air  how  pleasant  and  fair  ! 
In  every  field  of  wheat. 
The  fairest  of  flowers  adorning  the  bowers. 
And  every  meadow's  brow  ; 
So  that  I  say,  no  courtier  may 
Compare  with  them  who  clothe  In  gray 
And  follow  the  useful  plough. 

They  rise  with  the  morning  lark, 
And  labor  till  almost  dark, 

Then,  folding  their  sheep,  they  hasten  to  sleep 
While  every  pleasant  park 

Next  morning  is  ringing  with  birds  that  are  singing 
On  f  ach  green,  tender  bough. 

With  what  content  and  merriment 

Their  days  are  spent,  whose  minds  are  bent 
To  follow  the  useful  plough. 


ffl 


A  PASTORAL 

Y  time,  O  ye  Muses,  was  happily  spent. 
When  Phoebe  went  with  me  wherever  I 

went; 
Ten  thousand  sweet  pleasures  I  felt  in  my 
breast : 
Sure  never  fond  shepherd  like  Colin  was  blest ! 
But  now  she  is  gone,  and  has  left  me  behind. 
What  a  marvelous  change  on  a  sudden  I  find  ! 
When  things  were  as  fine  as  could  i^ossibly  be, 
1  thought  'twas  the  spring  :  but  alas  1  it  was  she. 


With  such  a  companion  to  tend  a  few  sheep. 
To  rise  up  and  play,  or  to  lie  down  and  sleep  : 
I  was  so  good  humored,  so  cheerful  and  gay, 
My  heart  was  as  light  as  a  feather  all  day  ; 
But  now  I  so  cross  and  so  peevish  am  grown, 
So  strangely  uneasy,  as  never  was  known. 
My  fair  one  is  gone  and  my  joys  are  all  drowned, 
And  my  heart — I  am  sure  it  weighs  more  than  a ' 
pound. 

The  fountain  that  wont  to  run  sweetly  along, 
And  dance  to  soft  murmurs  the  pebbles  among  ; 
Thou  knowest,  little  Cupid,  if  Phoebe  was  there, 
'Twas  pleasure  to  look  at,  'twas  music  to  hear : 
But  now  she  is  absent,  I  walk  by  its  side. 
And  still,  as  it  murmurs,  do  nothing  but  chide; 
Must  you  be  so  cheerful,  while  I  go  in  pain  ? 
Peace  there  with  your  bubbling,  and  hear  me  com- 
plain. 

My  lambkins  around  me  would  oftentimes  play. 
And  Phcebe  and  I  were  as  joyful  as  they ; 
How  pleasant  their  sporting,  how  happy  their  time, 
When  spring,    love  and  beauty   were  all    in    their 

prime; 
But  now,  in  their  frolics  when  by  me  they  pass,- 
I  fling  at  their  fleeces  a  handful  of  grass  ; 
Be  still,  then,  I  cry,  for  it  makes  me  quite  mad, 
To  see  you  so  merry  while  I  am  so  sad.  ,' 

My  dog  I  was  ever  well  pleased  to  see 
Come  wagging  his  tail  to  my  fair  one  and  me  ; 
And  Phoebe  was  pleased  too,  and  to  my  dog  said, 
"  Come  hither,  poor  fellow,"  and  patted  his  head. 
But  now,  when  he's  fawning,  I  with  a  sour  look 
Cry  "Sirrah  !  "  and  give  him  a  blow  with  my  crook  : 
And  I'll  give  him  another  ;  for  why  should  not  Tray 
Be  as  dull  as  his  master,  when  Phoebe's  away  ? 

When  walking  with  Phoebe,  what  sights  have  I  seen. 
How  fair  was  the  flower,  how  fresli  was  the  green  ! 
What  a  lovely  appearance  the  trees  and  the  shade, 
The  corn  fields  and  hedges,  and  everything  made  ! 
But  now  she  has  left  me,  though  all  are  still  there, 
They  none  of  them  now  so  delightful  appear  : 
'Twas  nought  but  the  magic,  I  find,  of  her  eyes, 
Made  so  many  beautiful  prospects  arise. 

Sweet  music  went  with  us  both  all  the  wood  through. 
The  lark,  linnet,  throstle,  and  nightingale  too  ; 
Winds  over  us  whispered,  flocks  by  us  did  bleat, 
And  chirp  !  went  the  grasshopper  under  our  feet. 
But  now  she  is  absent,  though  still  they  sing  on, 
The  woods  are  but  lonely,  the  melody's  gone  : 
Her  voice  in  the  concert,  as  now  I  have  found, 
Gave  everything  else  its  agreeable  sound. 

Rose,  what  is  become  of  thy  delicate  hue? 
And  where  is  the  violet's  beautiful  blue  ? 
Does  out  of  its  sweetness  the  blossom  beguile? 
That  meadow,  those  daisies,  why  do  they  not  smile  ? 


RURAL   LIFE. 


309 


Ah  !  rivals,  I  see  what  it  was  that  you  drest, 

And  made  yourselves  fine  for — a  place  in  her  breast 

You  put  on  your  colors  to  pleasure  her  eye, 

To  be  plucked  by  her  hand,  on  her  bosom  to  die. 

Will  no  pitying  power,  that  hears  me  complain, 
Or  cure  my  disquiet,  or  soften  my  pain  ? 
To  be  cured,  thou  must,  Colin,  thy  passion  remove; 
But  what  swain  is  so  silly  to  live  without  love  ! 
No,  Deity,  bid  the  dear  nymph  to  return. 
For  ne'er  was  poor  shepherd  so  sadly  forlorn. 
Ah  !  what  shall  I  do  ?  I  shall  die  with  despair ; 
Take  heed,  all  ye  swains,  how  ye  part  with  your  fair. 

John  Bvrom. 

THE  OLD  MILL. 

'ERE  from  the  brow  of  the  hill  I  look, 

Through  a  lattice  of  boughs  and  leaves. 
On  the  old  gray  mill  with  its  gambrel  roof, 
And  the  moss  on  its  rotting  eaves. 
I  hear  the  clatter  that  jars  its  walls. 

And  the  rushing  water's  sound. 
And  I  see  the  black  floats  rise  and  fall 
As  the  wheel  goes  slowly  round. 

I  rode  there  often  when  I  was  young, 

With  my  grist  on  the  horse  before, 
And  talked  with  Nelly,  the  miller's  girl, 

As  I  waited  my  turn  at  the  door. 
And  while  she  tossed  her  ringlets  brown, 

And  flirted  and  chatted  s ">  free. 
The  wheel  might  stop,  or  the  wheel  might  go, 

It  was  all  the  same  to  me. 

'Tis  twenty  years  since  last  I  stood 

On  the  spot  where  I  stand  to-day, 
And  Nelly  is  wed,  and  the  miller  is  dead. 

And  the  mill  and  I  are  gray. 
But  both,  till  we  fall  into  ruin  and  wreck, 

To  the  fortune  of  toil  are  bound  ; 
And  the  man  goes  and  the  stream  flows, 

And  the  wheel  moves  slowly  round. 

Thomas  Dunn  English. 


ANGLING. 

'  UST  in  the  dubious  point,  where  with  the  pool 
Is  mixed  the  trembling  stream,  or  where  it  boils 
Around  the  stone,  or  from  the  hollowed  bank 
Reverted  plays  in  undulating  flow, 
There  throw,  nice-judging,  the  delusive  fly  ; 
And,  as  you  lead  it  round  in  artful  curve, 
With  eye  attentive  mark  the  springing  game. 
Straight  as  above  the  surface  of  the  flood 
They  wanton  rise,  or  urged  by  hunger  leap. 
Then  fix,  with  gentle  twitch,  the  barbed  hook  ; 
Some  lightly  tossing  to  the  grassy  bank, 
And  to  the  shelving  shore  slow  dragging  some. 
With  various  hand  proportioned  to  their  force. 


If  yet  too  young,  and  easily  deceived, 

A  worthless  prey  scarce  bends  your  pliant  rod. 

Him,  piteous  of  his  youth,  and  the  short  space 

He  has  enjoyed  the  vital  light  of  heaven. 

Soft  disengage,  and  back  into  the  stream 

The  speckled  infant  throw.     But  should  you  lure 

From  his  dark  haunt,  beneath  the  tangled  roots 

Of  pendent  trees,  the  monarch  of  the  brook. 

Behooves  you  then  to  ply  your  finest  art. 

Long  time  he,  following  cautious,  scans  the  fly  ; 

And  oft  attempL<;  to  seize  it,  but  as  oft 

The  dimpled  water  speaks  his  jealous  fear. 

At  last,  while  haply  o'er  the  shaded  sun 

Passes  a  cloud,  he  desperate  takes  the  death, 

With  sullen  plunge.     At  once  he  darts  along, 

Deep-struck,  and  runs  out  all  the  lengthened  line  ; 

Then  seeks  the  farthest  ooze,  the  sheltering  weed. 

The  caverned  bank,  his  old  secure  abode  ; 

And  flies  aloft,  and  flounces  round  the  pool. 

Indignant  of  the  guile.     W^ith  yielding  hand. 

That  feels  him  still,  yet  to  his  furious  course 

Gives  way,  you,  now  retiring,  following  now 

Across  the  stream,  exhaust  his  idle  rage  ; 

Till,  floating  broad  upon  his  breathless  side. 

And  to  his  fate  abandoned,  to  the  shore 

You  gayly  drag  your  unresisting  prize. 

James  Thomson. 

MJLKING-TIME. 

TELL  you,  Kate,  that  Lovejoy  cow 

Is  worth  her  weight  in  gold ; 
She  gives  a  good  eight  quarts  o'  milk, 
And  isn't  yet  five  years  old. 

"  I  see  young  White  a-comin'  now  ; 
He  wants  her,  I  know  that. 
Be  careful,  girl,  you're  spillin'  it ! 
An'  save  some  for  the  cat 

"  Good  evenin',  Richard,  step  right  in  ;" 
"  I  guess  I  couldn't,  sir, 
I've  just  come  down" — "  I  know  it,  Dick, 
You've  took  a  shine  to  her. 

"  She's  kind  an'  gentle  as  a  lamb, 
Jest  where  I  go  she  follows ; 
And  though  it's  cheap  I'll  let  her  go  ; 
She's  your'n  for  thirty  dollars. 

"  You'll  know  her  clear  across  the  farm. 
By  them  two  milk-white  stars  ; 
You  needn't  drive  her  home  at  night. 
But  jest  le'  down  the  bars. 

"Then,  when  you've  owned  her,  say  a  month, 
And  learnt  her,  as  it  were, 
I'll  bet — why,  what's  the  matter,  Dick?" 
"Taint  her  I  want — it's — her .'" 


310 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


"What?  not  the  girl !  well,  I'll  be  bless'd  !— 
There,  Kate,  don't  drop  that  pan. 
You've  took  me  mightily  aback. 
But  then  a  man's  a  man. 

"  She's  your'n,  my  boy,  but  one  word  more ; 
Kate's  gentle  as  a  dove ; 
She'll  foller  you  the  whole  world  round, 
For  nothin'  else  but  love. 

"  But  never  try  to  drive  the  lass, 
Her  natur's  like  her  ma's. 
Fve  alius  found  it  worked  the  best. 
To  jest  le'  down  the  bars." 

Philip  Morse. 


THE  ANGLER. 

|UT  look  !  o'er  the  fall  see  the  angler  stand, 
Swinging  his  rod  with  skilful  hand  ; 
The  fly  at  the  end  of  his  gossamer  line 
Swims  tlirough  the  sun  like  a  summer  moth. 
Till,  dropt  witli  a  careful  precision  fine. 

It  touches  the  pool  beyond  the  froth. 
A-sudden,  the  speckled  hawk  of  the  brook 
Darts  from  his  covert  and  seizes  the  hook. 
Swift  spins  the  reel  ;  with  easy  slip 
The  line  pays  out,  and  the  rod,  like  a  whip. 
Lithe  and  arrowy,  tapering,  slim, 
Is  bent  to  a  bow  o'er  the  brooklet's  brim, 
Till  the  trout  leaps  up  in  the  sun,  and  flings 
The  spray  from  the  flash  of  his  finny  wings  ; 
Then  falls  on  his  side,  and,  drunken  with  fright, 

Is  towed  to  the  shore  like  a  staggering  barge, 

Till  beached  at  last  on  the  sandy  marge. 
Where  he  dies  with  the  hues  of  the  morning  light, 
While  his  sides  with  a  cluster  of  stars  are  bright. 
The  angler  in  the  basket  lays 
His  speckled  prize,  and  goes  his  ways. 

Thomas  Buchanan  Reed. 


MILLIONAIRE  AND  BAREFOOT  BOY. 

'IS  evening,  and  the  round  red  sun  sinks  slowly 
in  the  West, 
The  flowers  fold  their  petals  up,  the  birds  fly 
"^  to  their  nest. 

The  crickets  chirrup  in  the  grass,  the  bats  flit  to  and 

fro, 
And  tinkle-tankle  up  the  lane  the  lowing  cattle  go  ; 
And  the  rich  man  from  his  carriage  looks  out  on  them 

as  they  come — 
On  them  and  on  the  barefoot  boy  that  drives  the 
cattle  home. 

"I  wish,"  the  boy  says  to  himself—"!  wish  that  I 

were  he. 
And  yet,  upon  maturer  thought,  I  do  not — no,  siree  ! 


Not  for  all  the  gold  his  coffers  hold  would  I  be  that 

duffer  there, 
With  a  liver  pad  and  a  gouty  toe,  and  scarce  a  single 

hair; 
To  have  a  wife  with  a  Roman  nose,  and  fear  lest  a 

panic  come — 
Far  better  be  the  barefoot  boy  that  drives  the  cattle 

home." 

And  the  rich  man  murmurs  to  himself:  "Would  I 

give  all  my  peli 
To  change  my  lot  with  yonder  boy  ?    Not  if  I  know 

myself. 
Over  the  grass  that's  full  of  ants,  and  chill  with  dew 

to  go, 
With  a  stone  bruise  upon  either  heel  and  a  splinter  in 

my  toe ! 
Oh,  I'd  rather  sail  my  yacht  a  year  across  the  ocean's 

foam 

Than  be  one  day  the  barefoot  boy  that  drives  the 

cattle  home." 

G.  T.  Lanigan. 


THE  SHEPHERD-BOY. 

IKE  some  vision  olden 
'        Of  far  other  time, 
.     When  the  age  was  golden. 
In  the  young  world's  prime, 
Is  thy  soft  pipe  ringing, 

O  lonely  shepherd  boy  : 
What  song  art  thou  singing, 
In  thy  youth  and  joy  ? 

Or  art  thou  complaining 

Of  thy  lonely  lot. 
And  thine  own  disdaining, 

Dost  ask  what  hast  thou  not  ? 
Of  the  future  dreaming. 

Weary  of  the  past. 
For  the  present  scheming — 

All  but  what  thou  hast  ? 

No,  thou  art  delighting 

In  thy  summer  home  ; 
Where  the  flowers  inviting 

Tempt  the  bee  to  roam  ; 
Where  the  cowslip,  bending 

With  its  golden  bells. 
Of  each  glad  hour's  ending 

With  a  sweet  chime  tells 

All  wild  creatures  love  him 

When  he  is  alone ; 
Every  bird  above  him 

Sings  its  softest  tone. 
Thankful  to  high  Heaven, 

Humble  in  thy  joy, 
Much  to  thee  is  given. 

Lowly  shepherd  boy. 

Letitia  E.  Landon. 


RURAL  LIFE. 


311 


THE  BUSY  HOUSEWIFE. 

'HE  farmer  came  in  from  the  field  one  day; 
His  languid  step  and  his  weary  way, 
His  bended  brow,  his  sinewy  hand, 
All  showed  his  work  for  the  good  ot  the  land 
For  he  sows, 
And  he  hoes. 
And  he  mows. 
All  for  the  good  of  the  land. 

By  the  kitchen  fire  stood  his  patient  wife, 
Light  of  his  home  and  joy  of  his  life. 
With  face  all  aglow  and  busy  hand. 
Preparing  the  meal  for  her  husband's  band ; 

For  she  must  boil, 

And  she  must  broil. 

And  she  must  toil. 
All  for  the  good  of  the  home. 

The  bright  sun  shines  when  the  farmer  goes  out, 
The  birds  sing  sweet  songs,  lambs  frisk  about ; 
The  brook  babbles  softly  in  the  glen, 
While  he  works  so  bravely  for  the  good  of  men  ; 

For  he  sows. 

And  he  mows, 

And  he  hoes, 
All  for  the  good  of  the  land. 

How  briskly  the  wife  steps  about  within, 

The  dishes  to  wash,  the  milk  to  skim ; 

The  fire  goes  out,  flies  buzz  about — 

For  the  dear  ones  at  home  her  heart  is  kept  stout ; 

There  are  pies  to  make, 

There  is  bread  to  bake, 

And  steps  to  take, 
All  for  the  sake  of  home. 

When  the  day  is  o'er,  and  the  evening  is  come, 
The  creatures  are  fed,  the  milking  done, 
He  takes  his  rest  'neath  the  old  shade  tree. 
From  the  labor  of  the  land  his  thoughts  are  free : 

Though  he  sows, 

And  he  hoes, 

And  he  mows. 
He  rests  from  the  work  of  the  land. 

But  this  faithful  wife,  from  sun  to  sun. 

Takes  her  burden  up  that's  never  done ; 

There  is  no  rest,  there  is  no  play, 

For  the  good  of  the  house  she  must  work  away ; 

For  to  mend  the  frock, 

And  to  knit  the  sock. 

And  the  cradle  to  rock. 
All  for  the  good  of  the  home. 

When  autumn  is  here,  with  its  chilling  blast. 
The  farmer  gathers  his  crop  at  last ; 
His  barns  are  full,  his  fields  are  bare. 
For  the  good  of  the  land  he  ne'er  hath  care  ; 


While  it  blows. 
And  it  snows. 
Till  winter  goes. 
He  rests  from  the  work  of  the  land. 

But  the  willing  wife,  till  life's  closing  day. 
Is  the  children's  guide,  thehusband's  stay ; 
From  day  to  day  she  has  done  her  best. 
Until  death  alone  can  give  her  rest, 

For  after  the  test. 

Comes  the  rest, 

With  the  blest. 
In  the  farmer's  heavenly  home. 


RUTH. 


HE  stood  breast  high  amid  the  com 
Clasped  by  the  golden  light  of  mom, 
Like  the  sweetheart  of  the  sun, 
Who  many  a  glowing  kiss  had  won. 

On  her  cheek  an  autumn  flush 
Deeply  ripened  ; — such  a  blush 
In  the  midst  of  brown  was  bom, 
Like  red  poppies  grown  witli  corn. 

Round  her  eyes  her  tresses  fell — 
Which  were  blackest  none  could  tell ; 
But  long  lashes  veiled  a  light 
That  had  else  been  all  too  bright. 

And  her  hat,  with  shady  brim. 
Made  her  tressy  forehead  dim  ;— 
Thus  she  stood  amid  the  stooks, 
Praising  God  with  sweetest  looks. 

Sure,  I  said.  Heaven  did  not  mean 
Where  I  reap  thou  shouldst  but  glean  ; 
Lay  thy  sheaf  adown  and  come, 
Share  my  harvest  and  my  home. 

Thomas  Hood. 


RURAL  SOUNDS. 

OR  rural  sights  alone,  but  rural  sounds. 
Exhilarate  the  spirit,  and  restore 
The  tone  of  languid  nature.     Mighty  winds 
That  sweep  the  skirt  of  some  far-spreading 
wood. 
Of  ancient  growth,  make  music  not  unlike 
The  dash  of  ocean  on  his  winding  shore, 
And  lull  the  spirit  while  they  fill  the  mind. 
Unnumbered  branches  waving  in  the  blast. 
And  all  their  leaves  fast  fluttering  all  at  once. 
Nor  less  composure  waits  upon  the  roar 
Of  distant  floods,  or  on  the  softer  voice 
Of  neighboring  fountain,  or  of  rills  that  slip 
Through  the  cleft  rock,  and  chiming  as  they  fall 
Upon  loose  pebbles,  lose  themselves  at  length 
In  matted  grass,  that  with  a  livelier  green 
Betrays  the  secret  of  their  silent  course. 


312 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


Nature  inanimate  displays  sweet  sounds, 

But  animated  nature  sweeter  still, 

To  soothe  and  satisfy  the  human  ear. 

Ten  thousand  warblers  cheer  the  day,  and  one 

The  livelong  night ;  nor  these  alone  whose  notes 

Nice-fingered  art  must  emulate  in  vain. 

But  cawing  rooks,  and  kites  that  swim  sublime 

In  still-repeated  circles,  screaming  loud. 

The  jay,  the  pie,  and  even  the  boding  owl 

That  hails  the  rising  moon,  have  charms  for  me. 

Sounds  inharmonious  in  themselves  and  harsh. 

Yet  heard  in  scenes  where  peace  forever  reigns, 

And  only  there,  please  highly  for  their  sake. 

William  Co^vfer. 


Sound  sleep  by  night ;  study  and  ease 
Together  mixed  ;  sweet  recreation, 
And  innocence,  which  most  does  please, 
With  meditation. 

Thus  let  me  live,  unseen,  unknown  ; 

Thus  unlamented  let  me  die ; 
Steal  from  the  world,  and  not  a  stone 
Tell  where  I  lie. 

Alexander  Pope. 


HEALTH— THE  HANDMAID  OF  HAPPINESS, 


O 


H  !  what  avail  the  largest  gifts  of  Heaven, 
When  drooping  health  and  spirits  go  amiss  ? 
How  tasteless  then  whatever  can  be  given  ? 
Health  is  the  vital  principle  of  bliss, 
And  exercise  of  health. 


RIVER  SONG. 

OME  to  the  river's  reedy  shore. 
My  maiden,  while  the  skies, 
With  blushes  fit  to  grace  thy  cheek. 
Wait  for  the  sun's  uprise  : 
There,  dancing  on  the  rippling  wave, 
My  boat  expectant  lies. 
And  jealous  flowers,  as  thou  goest  by, 
Unclose  tlicir  dewy  eyes. 

As  gently  down  the  stream  we  glide, 

The  lilies  all  unfold 

Their  leaves,  less  rosy  white  than  thou. 

And  virgin  hearts  of  gold  ; 

The  gay  birds  on  the  meadow  elm 

Sfvlute  thee  blithe  and  bold. 

While  I  behold  thee  ply  the  oar, 

And  glow  with  love  untold. 

F.  B.  Sanborn. 


HAPPY  THE  MAN  WHOSE  WISH  AND  CARE. 

'APPY  the  man  whose  wish  and  care 
A  few  paternal  acres  bound. 
Content  to  breathe  his  native  air 
In  his  own  ground. 

Whose  herds  with  milk,  whose  fields  with  bread, 

Whose  flocks  supply  him  with  attire ; 
Whose  trees  in  summer  yield  him  shade, 
In  winter,  fire. 

Blest  who  can  unconcernedly  find 

Hours,  days  and  years  slide  softly  away 
In  health  of  body,  peace  of  mind, 
Quiet  by  day, 


COME  TO  THE  SUNSET  TREE, 

OME  to  the  sunset  tree  ! 

The  day  is  past  and  gone ; 
The  woodman's  ax  lies  free, 
And  the  reaper's  work  is  done. 

The  twilight  star  to  heaven, 
And  the  summer  dew  to  flowers, 

And  rest  to  us  is  given 

By  the  cool,  soft  evening  hours. 

Sweet  is  the  hour  of  rest ! 

Pleasant  the  wind's  low  sigh, 
And  the  gleaming  of  the  west. 

And  the  turf  whereon  we  lie — 

When  the  burden  and  the  heat 

Of  labor's  task  are  o'er, 
And  kindly  voices  greet 

The  tired  one  at  his  door ; 

And  we  lift  our  trusting  eyes. 
From  the  hills  our  father's  trod, 

To  the  quiet  of  the  skies, 
To  the  Sabbath  of  our  God. 

Come  to  the  sunset  tree ! 

The  day  is  past  and  gone ; 
The  woodman's  ax  lies  free. 

And  the  reaper's  work  is  done. 

Yes ;  tuneful  is  the  sound 

That  dwells  in  whispering  boughs  ; 
Welcome  the  freshness  round, 

And  the  gale  that  fans  our  brows. 

But  rest  more  sweet  and  still 

Than  ever  nightfall  gave, 
Our  longing  hearts  shall  fill 

In  the  world  beyond  the  grave. 

There  shall  no  tempest  blow. 

No  scorching  noontide  heat ; 
There  shall  be  no  more  snow, 

No  weary  wandering  feet. 

Come  to  the  sunset  tree ! 

The  day  is  past  and  gone; 
The  woodman's  ax  lies  free, 

And  the  reaper's  work  is  done  ! 

Felicia  Dorothea  Hemans. 


RURAL  LIFE. 


313 


WHEN  THE  COWS  COME  HOME. 

LOVE  the  beautiful  evening 

Wlien  the  sunset  clouds  are  gold ; 
When  the  barn-fowls  seek  a  shelter 

And  the  young  lambs  seek  their  fold : 
When  the  four-o' -clocks  are  open, 

And  the  swallows  homeward  come ; 
When  the  horses  cease  their  labors. 
And  the  cows  come  home. 

When  the  supper's  almost  ready, 

And  Johnny  is  asleep, 
And  I  beside  the  cradle 

My  pleasant  vigil  keep ; 
Sitting  beside  the  window, 

Watching  for  "Pa"  to  come ; 
While  the  soft  bells  gently  tinkle 

As  the  cows  come  home. 

When  the  sunset  and  the  twilight 

In  mingling  hues  are  bent, 
I  can  sit  and  watch  the  shadows 

With  my  full  heart  all  content; 
And  I  wish  for  nothing  brighter. 

And  I  long  no  more  to  roam 
When  the  twilight  s  peace  comes  o'er  me, 

And  the  cows  come  home. 

I  see  their  shadows  lengthen 

As  they  slowly  cross  the  field, 
And  I  know  the  food  is  wholesome 

Which  their  generous  udders  yield 
More  than  the  tropic's  fruitage, 

Than  marble  hall  or  dome. 
Are  the  blessings  that  surround  me 

When  the  cows  come  home. 

Mary  E.  Nealey. 


i!j 


CORNFIELDS. 

HEN  on  the  breath  of  autumn  breeze, 
From  pastures  dry  and  brown, 
Goes  floating  like  an  idle  thought 
The  fair  white  thistle-down, 
Oh,  then,  what  joy  to  walk  at  will 
Upon  the  golden  harvest  hill ! 

What  joy  in  dreamy  ease  to  lie 

Amid  a  field  new  shorn, 
And  see  all  round  on  sun-lit  slopes 

The  piled-up  stacks  of  corn  ; 
And  send  the  fancy  wandering  o'er 
All  pleasant  harvest  fields  of  yore. 

I  feel  the  day — I  see  the  field, 
The  quivering  of  the  leaves. 

And  good  old  Jacob  and  his  house 
Bindi»»g  the  yellow  sheaves  ; 

And  at  this  very  hour  I  seem 

To  be  with  Joseph  in  his  dream. 


I  see  the  fields  of  Bethlehem, 

And  reapers  many  a  one. 
Bending  into  their  sickles'  stroke — 

And  Boaz  looking  on  ; 
And  Ruth,  the  Moabite  so  fair. 
Among  the  gleaners  stooping  there. 

Again  I  see  a  little  child, 

His  mother's  sole  delight — 
God's  living  gift  unto 

The  kind  good  Shunammite  ; 
To  mortal  pangs  I  see  him  yield, 
And  the  lad  bear  him  from  the  field. 

The  sun-bathed  quiet  of  the  hills. 

The  fields  of  Galilee, 
That  eighteen  hundred  years  ago 

Were  full  of  corn,  I  see  ; 
And  the  dear  Saviour  takes  his  way 
'Mid  ripe  ears  on  the  Sabbath  day. 

O  golden  fields  of  bending  com, 

How  beautiful  they  seem  ; 
The  reaper-folk,  the  piled-up  sheaves. 

To  me  are  like  a  dream. 
The  sunshine  and  the  very  air 
Seem  of  old  time,  and  take  me  there. 

Mary  Howitt. 


DRIVING  HOME  THE  COWS. 

UT  of  the  clover  and  blue-eyed  grass. 
He  turned  them  into  the  river-lane  ; 
One  after  another  he  let  them  pass. 
Then  fastened  the  meadow  bars  again. 


Under  the  willows  and  over  the  hill. 
He  patiently  followed  their  sober  pace  ; 

The  merry  whistle  for  once  was  still 
And  something  shadowed  the  sunny  face. 

Only  a  boy  !  and  his  father  had  said 
He  never  could  let  his  youngest  go : 

Two  already  were  lying  dead 
Under  the  feet  of  the  trampling  foe. 

But  after  the  evening  work  was  done. 

And  the  frogs  were  loud  in  the  meadow  swamp, 
Over  his  shoulder  he  slung  his  gun. 

And  stealthily  followed  the  foot-path  damp — 

Across  the  clover  and  through  the  wheat, 
With  resolute  heart  and  purpose  grim, 

Theugh  cold  was  the  dew  on  his  hurrying  eet, 
And  the  blind  bats  flitting  startled  him. 

Thrice  since  then  had  the  lanes  been  white, 
And  the  orchards  sweet  with  apple-bloom  ; 

And  now,  when  the  cows  came  back  at  night, 
The  feeble  father  drove  them  home. 


314 


CROWN   JEWELS. 


For  news  had  come  to  the  lonely  farm 
That  three  were  lying  where  two  had  lain  ; 

And  the  old  man's  tremulous  palsied  arm 
Could  never  lean  on  a  son's  again. 

The  summer  day  grew  cool  and  late ; 

He  went  for  the  cows  when  the  work  was  done  • 
JBut  down  the  lane,  as  he  opened  the  gate, 

He  saw  them  coming,  one  by  one — 

Brindle,  Ebony,  Speckle,  and  Bess, 
Shaking  their  horns  in  the  evening  wind. 

Cropping  the  buttercups  out  of  the  grass — 
But  who  was  it  following  close  behind? 

Loosely  swung  in  the  idle  air 

The  empty  sleeve  of  army  blue  ; 
And  worn  and  pale,  from  the  crisping  hair, 

Looked  out  a  face  that  the  father  knew ; — 

For  dreary  prisons  will  sometimes  yawn, 

And  yield  their  dead  unto  life  again  ; 
And  the  day  that  comes  with  a  cloudy  dawn 

In  golden  glory  at  last  may  wane. 

The  great  tears  sprang  to  their  meeting  eyes  ; 

For  the  heart  must  speak  when  the  lips  are  dumb, 
A-nd  under  the  silent  evening  skies 

Together  they  followed  the  cattle  home. 

Kate  P.  Osgood. 


TOWN  AND  COUNTRY. 

CD  made  the  country,  and  man  made  the  town  ; 
What  wonder  then,   that  health  and  virtue, 

gifts 
That  can  alone  make  sweet  the  bitter  draught 
That  life  holds  out  to  all,  should  most  abound 
And  least  be  threatened  in  the  fields  and  groves. 

William  Cowper. 


MY  HEART'S  IN  THE  HIGHLANDS. 

Y  heart 's  in  the  Highlands,  my  heart  is  not 

here; 
My  heart 's  in  the  Highlands  a-chasing  the 

deer; 

Chasing  the  wild  deer,  and  following  the  roe, 
My  heart 's  in  the  Highlands  wherever  I  go. 
Farewell  to  the  Highlands,  farewell  to  the  North, 
The  birth-place  of  valor,  the  country  of  worth ; 
Wherever  I  wander,  wherever  I  rove, 
The  hills  and  the  Highlands  forever  I  love. 

Farewell  to  the  mountains  high  covered  with  snow ; 
Farewell  to  the  straths  and  green  valleys  below  ; 
Farewell  to  the  forests  and  wild-hanging  woods; 
Farewell  to  the  torrents  and  loud-pouring  floods. 
My  heart 's  in  the  Highlands,  my  heart  is  not  here ; 
My  heart 's  in  the  Highlands  a-chasing  the  deer. 
Chasing  the  wild  deer,  and  following  the  roe, 
My  heart 's  in  the  Highlands  wherever  I  go. 

Robert  Burns. 


HUNTING  SONG. 

HE  sun  from  the  East  tips  the  mountains  with 
gold; 
The  meadows  all  spangled  with  dew-drops 

f  behold ! 

Hear  !  the  lark's  early  matin  proclaims  the  new  day, 
And  the  horn's  cheerful  summons  rebukes  our  delay. 

CHORUS. 

With  the  sports  of  the  field  there's  no  pleasure  can 

vie. 
While  jocund  we  follow  the  hounds  in  full  cry. 

Let  the  drudge  of  the  town  make  riches  his  sport ; 
The  slave  of  the  state  hunt  the  smiles  of  a  court : 
No  care  and  ambition  our  pastime  annoy, 
But  innocence  still  gives  a  zest  to  our  joy. 

Mankind  are  all  hunters  in  various  degree ; 
The  priest  hunts  a  living — the  lawyer  a  fee. 
The  doctor  a  patient — the  courtier  a  place, 
Though  often,  like  us,  he's  flung  out  in  the  chase. 

The  cit  hunts  a  plumb— while  the  soldier  hunts  fame, 
The  poet  a  dinner — the  patriot  a  name; 
And  the  practised  coquette,  though  she  seems  to  re- 
fuse. 
In  spite  of  her  airs,  still  her  lover  pursues. 

Let  the  bold  and  the  busy  hunt  glory  and  wealth  ; 
All  the  blessing  we  ask  is  the  blessing  of  health. 
With  hound  and  with  horn  through  the  woodlands  to 

roam, 
And,  when  tired  abroad,  find  contentment  at  home. 

Paul  Whitehead. 


THE  CAVE. 

'HE  wind  is  up,  the  field  is  bare, 

Some  hermit  lead  me  to  his  cell, 
Where  contemplation,  lonely  fair, 
"f  With  blessed  content  has  chose  to  dwell. 

Behold !  it  opens  to  my  sight. 
Dark  in  the  rock,  beside  the  flood  ; 

Dry  fern  around  obstructs  the  light ; 
The  winds  above  it  move  the  wood. 

Reflected  in  the  lake,  I  see 

The  downward  mountains  and  the  skies, 
The  flying  bird,  the  waving  tree, 

The  goats  that  on  the  hill  arise. 

The  gray-cloaked  herd  drives  on  the  cow. 
The  slow-paced  fowler  walks  the  heath ; 

A  freckled  pointer  scours  the  brow  ; 
A  musing  shepherd  stands  beneath. 

Curved  o'er  the  ruin  of  an  oak. 
The  woodman  lifts  his  axe  on  high ; 

The  hills  re-echo  to  the  stroke ; 
I  see — I  see  the  shivers  fly  ! 


RURAL  LIFE. 


315 


Some  rural  maid,  with  apron  full, 

Brings  fuel  to  the  homely  flame  ; 
I  see  the  smoky  columns  roll, 

And,  through  the  chinky  hut,  the  beam. 

Beside  a  stone  o'ergrown  with  moss. 
Two  well-met  hunters  talk  at  ease ; 

Three  panting  dogs  beside  repose ; 
One  bleeding  deer  is  stretched  on  grass. 

A  lake  at  distance  spreads  to  sight, 
Skirted  with  shady  forests  round  ; 

In  midst  an  island  s  rocky  height 
Sustains  a  ruin,  once  renqwned. 

One  tree  bends  o'er  the  naked  walls ; 

Two  broad-winged,  eagles  hover  nigh ; 
By  intervals  a  fragment  falls, 

As  blows  the  blast  along  the  sky. 

The  rough  spun  hinds  the  pinnace  guide 
With  laboring  oars  along  the  flood  ; 

An  angler,  bending  o'er  the  tide, 
Hangs  from  the  boat  the  insidious  wood. 

Beside  the  flood,  beneath  the  rocks, 
On  grassy  bank,  two  lovers  lean  ; 

Bend  on  each  other  amorous  looks, 
And  seem  to  laugh  and  kiss  between. 

The  wind  is  rustling  in  the  oak ; 

They  seem  to  hear  the  tread  of  feet ; 
They  start,  they  rise,  look  round  the  rock  ; 

Again  they  smile,  again  they  meet. 

But  see  !  the  gray  mist  from  the  lake 

Ascends  upon  the  shady  hills ; 
Dark  storms  the  murmuring  forests  shake, 

Rain  beats  around  a  hundred  rills. 

To  Damon's  homely  hut  I  fly ; 

I  see  it  smoking  on  the  plain  ; 
When  storms  are  past  and  fair  the  sky, 

I'll  often  seek  my  cave  again. 

James  Macpherson. 


HARVEST   SONG. 

LOVE,  I  love  to  see 

Bnght  steel  gleam  through  the  land  ; 
'Tis  a  goodly  sight,  but  it  must  be 
In  the  reaper's  tawny  hand. 

The  helmet  and  the  spear 

Are  twined  with  the  laurel  wreath  ; 
But  the  trophy  is  wet  with  the  orphan's  tear; 

And  blood-spots  rust  beneath. 

I  love  to  see  the  field 

That  is  moist  with  purple  stain, 
But  not  where  bullet,  sword  and  shield 

Lie  strewn  with  the  gory  slain. 


No,  no  ;  'tis  where  the  sun 

Shoots  down  his  cloudless  beams. 
Till  rich  and  bursting  juice-drops  run 

On  the  vineyard  earth  in  streams. 

My  glowing  heart  beats  high 

At  the  sight  of  shining  gold  ; 
But  it  is  not  that  which  the  miser's  eye 

Delighteth  to  behold. 

A  brighter  wealth  by  far 
Than  the  deep  mine's  yellow  vein, 

Is  seen  around  in  the  fair  hills  crowned 
With  sheaves  of  burnished  grain. 

Look  forth  thou  thoughtless  one. 

Whose  proud  knee  never  bends  ; 
Take  thou  the  bread  that's  daily  spread. 

But  think  on  Him  who  sends. 

Look  forth,  ye  toiling  men. 

Though  little  ye  possess —  ' 

Be  glad  that  dearth  is  not  on  earth 

To  make  that  little  less. 

Let  the  song  of  praise  be  p>oured 

In  gratitude  and  joy. 
By  the  rich  man  with  his  garners  stored. 

And  the  ragged  gleaner-boy. 

The  feast  that  nature  gives 

Is  not  for  one  alone  ; 
'Tis  shared  by  the  meanest  slave  that  lives 

And  the  tenant  of  a  throne. 

Tlien  glory  to  the  steel 

That  shines  in  the  reaper's  hand. 
And  thanks  to  Him  who  has  blest  the  seed 

And  crowned  the  harvest  land. 

Eliza  Cook. 


THE  FARMER'S  WIFE. 

I IRD-LIKE  she's  up  at  day-dawn's  blush. 
In  summer  heats  or  winter  snows — 
Her  veins  with  healthful  blood  aflush. 
Her  breath  of  balm,  her  cheek  a  rose, 
In  eyes — the  kindest  eyes  on  earth — 
Are  sparkles  of  a  homely  mirth  ; 
All  vanished  is  the  brief  eclipse  ! 
Hark  !  to  the  sound  of  wedded  lips, 
And  words  of  tender  warmth  that  start 
From  out  the  husband's  grateful  heart ! 
O  !  well  he  knows  how  vain  is  life, 
Unsweetened  by  the  farmer's  wife. 

But  lo  !  the  height  of  pure  delight 
Comes  with  the  evening's  stainless  joys, 

When  by  the  hearthstone  spaces  bright 
Blend  the  glad  tones  of  girls  and  boys  ; 

Their  voices  rise  in  gleeful  swells, 

Their  laughter  rings  like  elfin  bells. 


316 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


Till  with  a  look  'twixt  smile  and  frown 
The  mother  lays  her  infant  down, 
And  at  her  firm,  uplifted  hand. 
There's  silence  'mid  the  jovial  band; 
Demure,  arch  humor's  ambush  in 
The  clear  curves  of  her  dimpled  chin. 
Ah  !  guileless  creature,  hale  and  good, 
Ah  !  fount  of  wholesome  womanhood. 
Far  from  the  world's  unhallowed  strife  ! 
God's  blessing  on  the  farmer's  wife. 

I  love  to  mark  her  matron  charms. 

Her  fearless  steps  through  household  ways, 
Her  sun-burnt  hands  and  buxom  arms. 

Her  waist  unbound  by  torturing  stays  ; 
Blithe  as  a  bee,  with  busy  care. 
She's  here,  she's  there,  she's  everywhere  ; 
Long  ere  the  clock  has  struck  for  noon 
Home  chords  of  toil  are  all  in  tune  ; 
And  from  each  richly  bounteous  hour 
She  drains  its  use,  as  bees  a  flower. 
Apart  from  passion's  pam  and  strife. 
Peace  gently  girds  the  farmer's  wife ! 

Homeward  (his  daily  labors  done) 
The  stalwart  farmer  slowly  plods. 

From  battling,  between  shade  and  sun, 
With  sullen  glebe  and  stubborn  sods. 

Her  welcome  on  his  spirit  bowed 

Is  sunshine  flashing  on  a  cloud  ! 

Her  signal  stills  their  harmless  strife — 

Love  crowns  with  law  the  farmer's  wife  ! 

Ye  dames  in  proud,  palatial  halls — 
Of  lavish  wiles  and  jeweled  dress, 
On  whom,  perchance,  no  infant  calls, 
(For  barren  oft  your  loveliness) — 
Turn  hitherward  those  languid  eyes 
And  for  a  moment's  space  be  wise  ; 
Your  sister  'mid  the  country  dew 
Is  three  times  nearer  heaven  than  you, 
And  wh'^  re  the  palms  of  Eden  stir, 
Dream  not  that  ye  shall  stand  by  her, 
Though  in  your  false,  bewildering  life. 
Your  foUv  scorned  the  farmer's  wife ! 

Paul  Hamilton  Havne. 


IlJ 


RIVER  AND  WOOD. 

'jrl£RE  art  thou  loveliest,  O  nature,  tell ! 

Oh,  where  may  be  thy  paradise?    Where 

grow 

rhy  happiest  groves  ?  And  down  what  woody 
"dell 
Do  thy  most  fancy-winning  waters  flow  ? 
Tell  where  thy  softest  breezes  longest  blow  ? 
And  where  thy  ever  blissful  mountains  swell 
Upon  whose  sides  the  cloudless  sun  may  throw 
Eternal  summer,  while  the  air  may  quell 
His  fury.     Is  it  'neath  his  morning  car, 


Where  jeweled  palaces,  and  golden  thrones, 
Have  awed  the  eastern  nations  through  all  time  ? 
Or  o'er  the  western  seas,  or  where  afar 
Our  winter  sun  warms  up  the  southern  zones 
With  summer  ?    Where  can  be  the  happy  climes .-' 

William  Barnes. 


FARM-YARD  SONG. 

VER  the  hills  the  farm-boy  goes, 

His  shadow  lengthened  along  the  land, 

A  giant  staff  in  a  giant  hand  ; 

In  the  poplar  tree,  above  the  spnng. 
The  katydid  begins  to  sing  ; 

The  early  dews  are  falling  ;  — 
Into  the  stone-heap  darts  the  mink  ; 
The  swallows  skim  the  river's  brink  ; 
And  home  to  the  woodland  fly  the  crows, 
When  over  the  hill  the  farm-boy  goes. 

Cheerily  calling — 

"Co,'  boss  !  co',  boss  !  co' !  co'  1  co' !" 
Farther,  farther,  over  the  hill. 
Faintly  calling,  calling  still — 

"Co',  boss  I  co',  boss  !  co' !  co' !" 

Into  the  yard  the  farmer  goes, 

With  grateful  heart,  at  the  close  of  day ; 

Harness  and  chain  are  hung  away  ; 

In  the  wagon-shed  stand  yoke  and  plough  ; 

The  straw's  in  the  stack,  the  hay  in  the  mow, 

The  cooling  dews  are  falling  ; 
The  friendly  sheep  his  welcome  bleat. 
The  pigs  come  grunting  to  his  feet, 
The  whinnying  mare  her  master  knows. 
When  into  the  yard  the  farmer  goes, 

His  cattle  calling — 

"  Co',  boss  !  co',  boss  !  co' !  co'  !  co' ! " 
While  still  the  cow-boy,  far  away. 
Goes  seeking  those  that  have  gone  astray — 

"  Co',  boss  I  co',  boss  1  co' !  co' ! " 

Now  to  her  task  the  milkmaid  goes. 

The  cattle  come  crowding  through  the  gate, 

Lowing,  pushing,  little  and  great ; 

About  the  trough,  by  the  farm-yard  pump. 

The  frolicsome  j'earlings  frisk  and  jump, 

While  the  pleasant  dews  are  falling  ; 
The  new-milch  heifer  is  quick  and  shy. 
But  the  old  cow  waits  with  tranquil  eye  ; 
And  the  white  stream  into  the  bright  pail  flows, 
When  to  her  task  the  milkmaid  goes, 

Soothingly  calling — 
"  So,  boss  !  so,  boss  !  so  !  so  !  so !  " 
The  cheerful  milkmaid  takes  her  stool. 
And  sits  and  milks  in  the  twilight  cool. 

Saying,  "  So  !  so,  boss  !  so  !  so  !  " 

To  supper  at  last  the  farmer  goes, 
The  apples  are  pared,  the  paper  read, 
The  stories  are  told,  then  all  to  bed. 


RURAL  LIFE. 


311 


Without,  the  cricket's  ceaseless  song 
Makes  shrill  the  silence  all  night  long  ; 

The  heavy  dews  are  falling. 
The  housewife's  hand  has  turned  the  lock  ; 
Drowsily  ticks  the  kitchen  clock  ; 
The  household  sinks  to  deep  repose  ; 
But  still  in  sleep  the  farm-boy  goes 

Singing,  calling— 
"Co',  boss!  co',  boss!  co'  !  co'  !  co' !" 
And  oft  the  milkmaid  in  her  dreams 
Drums  in  the  pail  with  the  flashing  streams, 

Murmuring,  "  So,  boss  !  so  ! " 

John  Townsend  Trowbridge. 


iIj 


THE  HORSEBACK  RIDE. 

"HEN  troubled  in  spirit,  when  weary  of  life, 
When  I  faint  'neath  its  burdens,  and  shrink 

from  its  strife. 
When  its  fruits,  turned  to  ashes,  are  mocking 
my  taste. 
And  its  fairest  scene  seems  but  a  desolate  waste, 
Then  come  ye  not  near  me,  my  sad  heart  to  cheer, 
With  friendship's  soft  accents,  or  sympathy's  tear. 
No  pity  I  ask,  and  no  counsel  I  need. 
But  bring  me,  oh,  bring  me  my  gallant  young  steed. 
With  his  high  archdd  neck,  and  his  nostril  spread  wide, 
His  eye  full  of  fire,  and  his  step  full  of  pride  ! 
As  I  spring  to  his  back,  as  I  seize  the  strong  rein, 
The  strength  to  my  spirit  returneth  again  I 
The  bonds  are  all  broken  that  fettered  my  mind. 
And  my  cares  borne  away  on  the  wings  of  the  wind  ; 
My  pride  lifts  its  head,  for  a  season  bowed  down, 
And  the  queen  in  my  nature  now  puts  on  her  crown  '. 

Now  we're  ofF— like  the  winds  to  the  plains  whence 

they  came ; 
And  the  rapture  of  motion  is  thrilling  my  frame  ! 
On,  on  speeds  my  courser,  scarce  printing  the  sod, 
Scarce  crushing  a  daisy  to  mark  where  he  trod  ! 
On,  on  like  a  deer,  when  the  hound's  early  bay- 
Awakes  the  wild  echoes,  away,  and  away  ! 
Still  faster,  still  farther,  he  leaps  at  my  cheer, 
Till  the  rush  of  the  startled  air  whirrs  in  my  ear ! 
Now  'long  a  clear  rivulet  lieth  his  track — 
See  his  glancing  hoofs  tossing  the  white  pebbles  back ! 
Now  a  glen,  dark  as  midnight — wliat  matter? — we'll 

down. 
Though  shadows  are  round  us,   and  rocks  o'er  us 

frown ; 
The  thick  branches  shake,  as  we're  hurrying  through, 
And  deck  us  with  spangles  of  silvery  dew  ! 

What  a  wild  thought  of  triumph,  that  this  girlish 
hand 
Such  a  steed  in  the  might  of  his  strength  may  com- 
mand ! 
What  a  glorious  creature  !    Ah  !  glance  at  him  now, 
As  I  check  him  a  while  on  this  green  hillock's  brow  ; 


How  he  tosses  his  mane,  with  a  shrill,  joyous  neigh. 

And  paws  the  firm  earth  in  his  proud,  stately  play  ! 

Hurrah  !  off  again,  dashing  on  as  in  ire, 

Till  the  long,  flinty  pathway  is  flashing  with  fire  ! 

Ho  !  a  ditch  !— Shall  we  pause  !  No  ;  the  bold  leap  we 

dare. 
Like  a  swift-winged  arrow  we  rush  through  the  air  1 
Oh,  not  all  the  pleasures  that  poets  may  praise. 
Not  the  wildering  waltz  in  the  ball-room's  blaze, 
Nor  the  chivalrous  joust,  nor  the  daring  race. 
Nor  the  swift  regatta,  nor  merry  chase, 
Nor  the  sail,  high  heaving  waters  o'er, 
Nor  the  rural  dance  on  the  moonlight  shore. 
Can  the  wild  and  thrilling  joy  exceed 
Of  a  fearless  leap  on  a  fiery  steed  ! 

Sarah  Jane  Lippincott  ( Grace  Greenwood). 


THE  HOUSE  ON  THE  HILL. 

ROM  the  weather-worn  house  on  the  brow  of 
the  hill 
We  are  dwelling  afar,  in  our  manhood,  to- 
day; 
But  we  see  the  old  gables  and  hollyhocks  still. 

As  they  looked  long  ago,  ere  we  wandered  away ; 
We  can  see  the  tall  well-sweep  that  stands  by  the  door, 
And  the  sunshine  that  gleams  on  the  old  oaken  floor. 

We  can  hear  the  low  hum  of  the  hard-working  bees 
At  their  toil  in  our  father's  old  orchard,  once  more, 

In  the  broad,  trembling  tops  of  the  bright-blooming 
trees. 
As  they  busily  gather  their  sweet  winter  store ; 

And  the  murmuring  brook,  the  delightful  old  horn. 

And  the  cawing  black  crows  that  are  pulling  the  com. 

We  can  hear  the  sharp  creak  of  the  farm-gate  again, 
And  the  loud,  cackling  hens  in  the  gray  barn  near  by. 

With  its  broad  sagging  floor  and  its  scaffolds  of  grain, 
And  its  rafters  that  once  seemed  to  reach  to  the  sky; 

We  behold  the  great  beams,  and  the  bottomless  bay 

Where  the  farm-boys  once  joyfully  jumped  on  the  hay. 

We  can  see  the  low  hog-pen,  just  over  the  way. 

And  the  long-ruined  shed  by  the  side  of  the  road. 
Where  the  sleds  in  the  summer  were  hidden  away 
And  the  wagons    and  plows  in  the    winter  were 
stowed ; 
And  the  cider-mill,  down  in  the  hollow  below. 
With  a  long,  creaking  sweep,  the  old  horse  us"<a  «o 
draw, 
Where  we  learned  by  the  homely  old  tub  long  ac;o, 
What  a  world  of  sweet  rapture  there  was  in  a  sl/aw  ; 
From  the  cider-casks  there,  loosely  lying  around. 
More  leaked  from  the  bung-holes  than  dripped  on  the 
ground. 

We  behold  the  bleak  hillsides  still  bristling  with  rocks. 
Where  the  mountain  streams  murmured  vi'ith  musical 
sound, 


318 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


Where  we  hunted  and  fished,  where  we  chased  the  red 

fox, 
With  lazy  old  house-dog  or  loud-baying  hound ; 
And  the  cold,  cheerless  woods  we  delighted  to  tramp 
For  the  shy,  whirring  partridge,  in  snow  to  our  knees, 
Where,  with  neck  yoke  and  pails,  in  the  old  sugar- 
camp. 
We  gathered  the  sap  from  the  tall  maple-trees  ; 
And  the  fields  where  our  plows  danced  a  furious  jig. 

While  we  wearily  followed  the  furrow  all  day. 
Where  we  stumbled  and  bounded  o'er  boulders  so  big 

That  it  took  twenty  oxen  to  draw  them  away  ; 
Where  we  sowed,  where  we  hoed,  where  we  cradled 
and  mowed. 
Where  we  scattered  the  swaths  that  were  heavy 
with  dew, 
Where  we  tumbled  and  pitched,  and  behind  the  tall 
load 
The  broken  old  bull-rake  reluctantly  drew. 

How  we  grasped  the  old  "sheepskin"  with  feelings 
of  scorn 
As  we  straddled  the  back  of  the  old  sorrel  mare, 
And  rode  up  and  down  through  the  green  rows  of 
corn. 
Like  a  pin  on  a  clothes-line  that  sways  in  the  air  ; 
We  can  hear  our  stern  fathers  reproving  us  still. 
As  the  careless  old  creature  "  comes  down  on  a  hill." 

We  are  far  from  the  home  of  our  boyhood  to-day. 

In  the  battle  of  life  we  are  struggling  alone  ; 
The  weather-worn  farmhouse  has  gone  to  decay. 

The  chimney  has  fallen,  the  swallows  have  flown, 
But  fancy  yet  brings,  on  her  bright  golden  wings, 

Her  beautiful  pictures  again  from  the  past, 
And  memory  fondly  and  tenderly  clings 

To  pleasures  and  pastimes  too  lovely  to  last. 

We  wander  again  by  the  river  to-day  ; 

We  iit  in  the  school-room,  o'erflowing  with  fun, 
We  whisper,  we  play,  and  we  scamper  away 

When  our  lessons  are  learned  and  the  spelling  is 
done. 

We  see  the  old  cellar  where  apples  were  kept, 
The  garret  where  all  the  old  rubbish  was  thrown. 

The  little  back  chamber  where  snugly  we  slept. 
The  homely  old  kitchen,  the  broad  hearth  of  stone, 

Where  apples  were  roasted  in  many  a  row. 

Where  our  grandmothers  nodded  and  knit  long  ago. 

Our  grandmothers  long  have  reposed  in  the  tomb  ; 
With  a  strong,  healthy  race  they  have  peopled  the 
land ; 
They  worked  with  the  spindle,   they  toiled  at  the 
loom. 
Nor  lazily  brought  up  their  babies  by  hand. 

The  old  fiint-lock  musket,  whose  awful  recoil 
Made  many  a  Nimrod  with  agony  cry. 

Once  hung  on  the  chimney,  a  part  of  the  spoil 
Our  gallant  old  grandfathers  captured  at  "  Ti." 


Brave  men  were  our  grandfathers,  sturdy  and  strong ; 

The  kings  of  the  forest  they  plucked  from  their  lands; 
They  were  stern  in  their  virtues,  they  hated  all  wrong, 
And  they  fought  for  the  right  with  their  hearts  aii<l 

their  hands. 
Down,   down  from  the  hillsides  they  swept  in  lluir 
might, 

And  up  from  the  valleys  they  went  on  their  way. 
To  fight  and  to  fall  upon  Hubbardton's  height. 

To  struggle  and  conquer  in  Bennington's  fray. 

Oh  !  fresh  be  their  mertjory,  cherished  the  sod 
That  long  has  grown  green  o'er  their  sacred  re- 
mains. 

And  grateful  our  hearts  to  a  generous  God 

For  the  blood  and  the  spirit  that  flows  in  their  veins. 

Our  Aliens,  our  Starks,  and  our  Warners  are  gone, 
But  our  mountains    remain    with    their   evergreen 
crown. 

The  souls  of  our  heroes  are  yet  marching  on. 
The  structure  they  founded  shall  never  go  down. 

From  the  weather-worn  house  on  the  brow  of  the  hill 
We  are  dwelling  afar,  in  our  manhood  to-day  ; 

But  we  see  the  old  gables  and  hollyhocks  still. 
As  they  looked  when  we  left  them  to  wander  away. 

But  the  dear  ones  we  loved  in  the  sweet  long  ago 

In  the  old  village  churchyard  sleep  under  the  snow. 

Farewell  to  the  friends  of  our  bright  boyhood  days. 

To  the  beautiful  vales  once  delightful  to  roam. 
To  the  fathers,  the  mothers,  now  gone  from  our  gaze, 
From  the  weather-worn   house  to  their  heavenly 
home. 
Where  they  wait,  where  they  watch,  and  will  welcome 

us  still, 
As  thev  waited  and  watched  in  the  house  on  the  hill. 

Eugene  J.  Hall. 


ON  THE  BANKS  OF  THE  TENNESSEE. 

SIT  by  the  open  window 
And  look  to  the  hills  away, 
Over  beautiful  undulations 
That  glow  with  the  flowers  of  May — 
And  as  the  lights  and  the  shadows 

With  the  passing  moments  change, 
Comes  many  a  scene  of  beauty 

Within  my  vision's  range — 
But  there  is  not  one  among  them 

That  is  half  so  dear  to  me, 
As  an  old  log  cabin  I  think  of 
On  the  banks  of  the  Tennessee. 

Now  up  from  the  rolling  meadows. 
And  down  from  the  hill- tops  now. 

Fresh  breezes  steal  in  at  my  window, 
And  sweetly  fan  my  brow — 

And  the  sounds  that  they  gather  and  bring  me, 
From  rivulet,  meadow  and  hill. 


RURAL  LIFE. 


319 


Come  in  with  a  touching  cadence, 

And  my  throbbing  bosom  fill — 
But  the  dearest  thoughts  thus  wakened, 

And  in  tears  brought  back  to  me, 
Cluster  round  that  old  log  cabin 

On  the  banks  of  the  Tennessee. 

To  many  a  fond  remembrance 

My  thoughts  are  backward  cast, 
As  I  sit  by  the  open  window 

And  recall  the  faded  past — 
For  all  along  the  windings 

Of  the  ever-moving  years. 
Lie  wrecks  of  hope  and  of  purpose 

That  I  now  behold  through  tears — 
And  of  all  of  them,  the  saddest 

That  is  thus  brought  back  to  me, 
Makes  holy  that  old  log  cabin 

On  the  banks  of  the  Tennessee. 

Glad  voices  now  greet  me  daily. 

Sweet  faces  I  oft  behold, 
Yet  I  sit  by  the  open  window 

And  dream  of  the  times  of  old — 
Of  a  voice  that  on  earth  is  silent. 

Of  a  face  that  is  seen  no  more. 
Of  a  spirit  that  faltered  not  ever 

In  the  struggle  of  days  now  o'er— 
And  a  beautiful  grave  comes  pictured 

For  ever  and  ever  to  me, 
From  a  knoll  near  that  old  log  cabin 

On  the  banks  of  the  Tennessee. 

William  D.  Gallagher. 


THE  HAPPINESS  OF  ANIMALS. 

'ERE  unmolested,  through  whatever  sign 
The  sun  proceeds,  I  wander.     Neither  mist. 
Nor  freezing  sky  nor  sultry,  checking  me, 
Nor  stranger,  intermeddling  with  my  joy, 
Even  in  the  spring  and  playtime  of  the  year, 
That  calls  the  unwonted  villager  abroad 
With  all  her  little  ones,  a  sportive  train, 
To  gather  kingcups  in  the  yellow  mead, 
And  prink  their  hair  with  daisies,  or  to  pick 


A  cheap  but  wholesome  salad  from  the  brook, 

These  shades  are  all  my  own.     The  timorous  hare, 

Grown  so  familiar  with  her  frequent  guest, 

Scarce  shuns  me  ;  and  the  stockdove  unalarmed 

Sits  cooing  in  the  pine-tree,  nor  suspends 

His  long  love-ditty  for  my  near  approach. 

Drawn  from  his  refuge  in  some  lonely  elm, 

That  age  or  injury  has  hollowed  deep, 

Where  on  his  bed  of  wool  and  matted  leaves, 

He  has  outslept  the  winter,  ventures  forth 

To  frisk  a  while,  and  bask  in  the  warm  sun. 

The  squirrel,  flippant,  pert,  and  full  of  play  ; 

He  sees  me,  and  at  once,  swift  as  a  bird,  * 

Ascends  the  neighboring  beech  ;  there  whisks  his  brush, 

And  perks  his  ears,  and  stamps,  and  cries  aloud, 

With  all  the  prettiness  of  feigned  alarm. 

And  anger,  insignificantly  fierce. 

The  heart  is  hard  in  nature,  and  unfit 
For  human  fellowship,  as  being  void 
Ofs^Tnpathy,  and  therefore  dead  alike 
To  love  and  friendship  both,  that  is  not  pleased 
With  sight  of  animals  enjoying  life, 
Nor  feels  their  happiness  augment  his  own. 
The  bounding  fawn  that  darts  along  the  glade 
When  none  pursues,  through  mere  delight  of  heart, 
And  spirits  buoyant  with  excess  of  glee  ; 
The  horse  as  wonton,  and  almost  as  fleet 
That  skims  the  spacious  meadow  at  full  speed. 
Then  stops,  and  snorts,  and  throwing  high  his  heels, 
Starts  to  the  voluntary  race  again  ; 
The  very  kine,  that  gambol  at  high  noon, 
The  total  herd  receiving  first  from  one. 
That  leads  the  dance,  a  summons  to  be  gay, 
Though  wild  their  strange  vagaries  and  uncouth 
Their  efforts,  yet  resolved  with  one  consent 
To  give  such  act  and  utterance  as  they  may 
To  ecstasy  too  big  to  be  suppressed — 
These  and  a  thousand  images  of  bliss. 
With  which  kind  nature  graces  every  scene, 
Where  cruel  man  defeats  not  her  design. 
Impart  to  the  benevolent,  who  wish 
All  that  are  capable  of  pleasure  pleased, 
A  far  superior  happiness  to  theirs. 
The  comfort  of  a  reasonable  joy. 

William  Cowper. 


SORROW  AND  SDYERSITY, 


GO  WHERE  GLORY  WAITS  THEE! 


O  where   glory    waits 

thee ; 
But,  while  fame  elates 
thee, 
O    still    remember 
me ! 
When    the    praise     thou 

meetest 
To  thine  ear  is  sweetest, 
O  then  remember  me  ! 
Other  arms  may  press  thee 
Dearer  friends  caress 

thee — 
All  the  joys  that  bless  thee 

Sweeter  far  may  be  ; 
But  when  friends  are  near 
est, 
And  when  joys  are  dearest, 
O  then  remember  me ! 

When,  at  eve,  thou  rovest 
By  the  star  thou  lovest, 

O  then  remember  me  ! 
Think  when  home  returning, 
Bright  we've  seen  it  burning, 

O,  thus  remember  me ! 
Oft  as  summer  closes, 
When  thine  eye  reposes 
On  its  lingering  roses. 

Once  so  loved  by  thee, 
Think  of  her  who  wove  them, 
Her  who  made  thee  love  them  ; 

O  then  remember  me  ! 

When,  around  thee  dying. 
Autumn  leaves  are  lying, 

O  then  remember  me ! 
And,  at  night,  when  gazing 
On  the  gay  hearth  blazing, 

O,  still  remembertne ! 
Then  should  music,  stealing 
All  the  soul  of  feeling, 
To  thy  heart  appealing, 

Draw  one  tear  from  thee — 
Then  let  memory  bring  thee 
Strains  I  used  to  sing  thee  ; 

O  then  remember  me ! 

Thomas  Moore. 


BIJAH'S  STORY. 

'E  was  little  more  than  a  baby, 

And  played  on  the  streets  all  day ; 
And  holding  in  his  tiny  fingers 
The  string  of  a  broken  sleigh. 

He  was  ragged,  and  cold,  and  hungry, 

Yet  his  face  was  a  sight  to  see, 
And  he  lisped  to  a  passing  lady — 
"  Pleathe,  mithus,  will  you  yide  me?" 

Put  she  drew  close  her  fur-lined  mantle. 
And  her  train  of  silk  and  lace, 

While  she  stared  with  haughty  wonder 
In  the  eager,  piteous  face. 

And  the  eyes  that  shone  so  brightly. 
Brimmed  o'er  with  gushing  rain, 

And  the  poor  little  head  dropped  lower 
While  his  heart  beat  a  sad  refrain. 

When  night  came,  cold  and  darkly, 
And  the  lamps  were  all  alight. 

The  pallid  lips  grew  whiter 
With  childish  grief  and  fright. 

As  I  was  passing  the  entrance 
Of  a  church  across  the  way, 

I  found  a  poor  dead  baby. 
With  his  head  on  a  broken  sleigh. 

Soon  young  and  eager  foots>^eps 
Were  heard  on  the  frozen  street, 

And  a  boy  dashed  into  the  station. 
Covered  with  snow  and  sleet. 

On  his  coat  was  a  newsboy's  number, 
On  his  arm  a  "  bran  new  sled  ; " 

Have  you  seen  my  brother  Bijah  f 
He  ought  to  be  home  in  bed. 

"You  see,  I  leave  him  at  Smithers' 
While  I  go  round  with  the  '  Press  :' 

They  must  have  forgot  about  him, 
And  he's  strayed  away,  I  guess. 

"  Last  night  when  he  said  '  Our  Father,' 
And  about  the  daily  bread, 
He  just  threw  in  an  extra 
Concerning  a  nice  new  sled. 

"  I  was  tellin'  the  boys  at  the  office, 
As  how  he  was  only  three  ; 
And  they  stuck  in  for  this  here  stunner 
And  sent  it  home  with  me. 


(320) 


iUdi; 


«  aew  sled. 

>-s  at  the  office^ 

•  '•ivrltree; 

is  here  3tunn«" 


©Kl  BP^WaE'Si^EOl    ili!®P>EI; 


SORROW  AND   ADVERSITY. 


323 


•frULIET.      O,   think'st  thou   we  shall  ever    meet 


J 


again  ? 
Romeo.     I  doubt  it  not ;  and  all  these  woes  shall 

serve 
For  sweet  discourses  in  our  time  to  come. 

William  Shakespeare. 


'E  did  keep 

The  deck,  with  glove,  or  hat,  or  handkerchief, 
Still  waving  as  the  fits  and  stirs  of  his  mind 
Could  best  express  how  slow  his  soul  sailed 
on — 

How  swift  his  ship. 

William  Shakespeare. 


llJ 


HEN  we  two  parted 
In  silence  and  tears, 
Half  broken-hearted, 
To  sever  for  years. 

Pale  grew  thy  cheek  and  cold, 
Colder  thy  kiss : 
Truly  that  hour  foretold 
Sorrow  to  this ! 

Lord  Byron. 


ON  THE  BRIDGE  OF  SIGHS. 

*T  chanceth  once  to  every  soul. 

Within  a  narrow  hour  of  doubt  and  dole. 

Upon  life's  bridge  of  sighs  to  stand, 
A  palace  and  a  prison  on  each  hand. 

O  palace  of  the  rose-heart's  hue  ! 

How  like  a  flower  the  warm  light  falls  from  you  ! 

O  prison  with  the  hollow  eyes  ! 

Beneath  your  stony  stare  no  flowers  arise. 

O  palace  of  the  rose-sweet  sin  ! 

How  safe  the  heart  that  does  not  enter  in ! 

O  blessed  prison-walls  I  how  true 

The  freedom  of  the  soul  that  chooseth  you  ! 

Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps. 


ffi 


PARTING. 

Y  early  love,  and  must  we  part  ? 
Yes  !  other  wishes  win  thee  now  ; 
New  hopes  are  springing  in  thy  heart. 
New  feelings  brightening  o'er  thy  brow ! 
And  childhood's  light  and  childhood's  home 
Are  all  forgot  at  glory's  call. 

Yet,  cast  one  thought  in  years  to  come 
On  her  who  loved  thee  o'er  them  all. 

When  love  and  friendship's  holy  joys 
Within  their  magic  circle  bind  thee. 
And  happy  hearts  and  smiling  eyes. 
As  all  must  wear  who  are  around  thee, 


Remember  that  an  eye  as  bright 
Is  dimmed — a  heart  as  true  is  broken, 
And  turn  thee  from  thy  land  of  light, 
To  waste  on  these  some  little  token. 
But  do  not  weep  ! — I  could  not  bear 
To  stain  thy  cheek  with  sorrow's  trace, 
I  would  not  draw  one  single  tear, 
For  worlds,  down  that  beloved  face. 
As  soon  would  I,  if  power  were  given, 
Pluck  out  the  bow  from  yonder  sky, 
And  free  the  prisoned  floods  of  heaven. 
As  call  one  tear-drop  to  thine  eye. 

Thomas  Kibble  Hervey. 


THE  LITTLE  MATCH-GIRL 

ITTLE  Gretchen,  little  Gretchen  wanders  up 
and  down  the  street ; 
The  snow  is  on  her  yellow  hair,  the  frost  is 
on  her  feet. 
The  rows  of  long,  dark  houses  without  look  cold  and 

damp, 
By  the  struggling  of  the  moonbeam,  by  the  flicker  of 

the  lamp. 
The  clouds  ride  fast  as  horses,  the  wind  is  from  the 

north, 
But  no  one  cares  for  Gretchen,  and  no  one  looketh 

forth. 
Within  those  dark,   damp   houses  are  merry  faces 

bright, 
And  happy  hearts  are  watching  out  the  old  year's 

latest  night. 
With  the  little  box  of  matches  she  could  not  sell  all 

day, 
And  the  thin,  tattered  mantle  the  wind  blows  every 

way, 
She  clingeth  to  the  railing,  she  shivers  in  the  gloom — 
There  are  parents  sitting  snugly  by  the  firelight  in  the 

room ; 
And  children  with  grave  faces  are  whispering  one 

another 
Of  presents  for  the  New  Year,  for  father  or  for  mother. 
But  no  one  talks  to  Gretchen,  and  no  one  hears  her 

speak ; 
No  breath  of  little  whispers  comes  warmly  to  her 

cheek. 

Her  home  is  cold  and  desolate ;  no  smile,  no  food,  no 

fire. 
But  children  clamorous  for  bread,  and  an  impatiei  t 

sire. 
So  she  sits  down  in  an  angle  where  two  great  houses 

meet, 
And  she  curleth  up  beneath  her  for  warmth  her  little 

feet ; 
And  she  looketh  on  the  cold  wall,  and  on  the  colder 

sky, 
And  wonders  if  the  little  stars  are  bright  fires  up  on 

high. 


324 


CROWN   JEWELS. 


She  hears  the  clock  strike  slowly,  up  high  in  a  church- 
tower, 

With  such  a  sad  and  solemn  tone,  telllpig  the  mid- 
night hour. 

She  remembered  her  of  stories  her  mother  used  to 

tell, 
And  of  the  cradle-songs  she  sang,  when  summer's 

twiUght  fell. 
Of  good  men  and  of  angels,  and  of  the  Holy  Child, 
Who  was  cradled  in  a  manger  when  winter  was  most 

wild  ; 
Who  was  poor,  and  cold,  and  hungry,  and  desolate 

and  lone ; 
And  she  thought  the  song  had  told  her  he  was  ever 

with  His  own. 
And  all  the  poor  and  hungry  and  forsaken  ones  were 

His— 
"  How  good  of  Him  to  look  on  me  in  such  a  place  as 

this!" 

Colder  it  grows  and  colder,  but  she  does  not  feel  it 

now, 
For  the  pre.ssure  on  her  bosom,  and  the  weight  upon 

her  brow  ; 
But  she  struck  one  little  match  on  the  wall  so  cold 

and  bare, 
That  she  might  look  around  her,  and  see  if  He  was 

there. 
The  single  match  was   kindled  ;  and,  by  the  light  it 

threw. 
It  seemed  to  little  Maggie  that  the  wall  was  rent  in 

two. 
And  she  could  see  the  room  within,  the  room  all  warm 

and  light, 
With  the  fire-glow  red  and  blazing,   and  the  tapers 

burning;  briaht. 


Then  all  her  little  store  she  took,  and  struck  with  all 
her  might. 

And  the  whole  place  around  her  was  lighted  with  the 
glare : 

And  lo  !  there  hung  a  little  Child  before  her  in  the  air! 

There  were  blood-drops  on  his  forehead,  a  spear- 
wound  in  his  side. 

And  cruel  nail-prints  in  his  feet,  and  in  his  hands  spread 
wide. 

And  he  looked  upon  her  gently,  and  she  felt  that  he 
had  known 

Pain,  hunger,  cold,  and  sorrow — ay,  equal  to  her  own. 

And  he  pointed  to  the  laden  board  and  to  the  Christ- 
mas-tree, 

Then  up  to  the  cold  sky,  and  said,  "Will  Gretchen 
come  with  me? " 

The  poor  child  felt  her  pulses  fail,  she  felt  her  eyeballs 
swim, 

And  a  ringing  sound  was  in  her  ears,  like  her  dead 
mother's  hymn  ; 

And  she  folded  both  her  thin  white  hands  and  turned 
from  that  bright  board. 

And  from  the  golden  gifts,  and  said,  "With  thee,  with 
thee,  O  Lord!" 


And  kindred  there   were 

richly  spread, 
With  heaps  of  goodly  viands,  red  wine,  and  pleasant 

bread. 
She  could  smell  the  fragrant  odor ;  she  could  hear 

them  talk  and  play  ; 
Then  all  was   darkness  once  again — the  match  had 

burned  away. 
She  struck  another  hastily,  and  now  she  seemed  to  see. 
Within  the  same  warm  chamber  a  glorious  Christmas- 
tree. 
The  branches  all  were  laden  down  with  things  that 

children  prize ; 
Bright  gifts  for  boy  and  maiden  they  showed  before 

her  eyes. 
And  she  almost  seemed  to  touch  them,  and  to  join  the 

welcome  shout ; 
Then  darkness  fell  around  her,  for  the  little  match  was 

out. 

Another,   yet  another,   she  has  tried — they  will  not 
ligfot ;. 


The  chilly  winter  morning  breaks  up  in  the  dull  skies. 
On  the  city  wrapt  in  vapor,  on  the  spot  where  Gretchen 

lies. 
In  her  scant  and  tattered    garments,  with  her  back 

against  the  wall, 
She  sitteth  cold  and  rigid,  she  answers  to  no  call. 
They  lifted  her  up  fearfully,  and  shuddered  as  they 

said, 
"  It  was  a  bitter,  bitter  night !  the  child  is  frozen  dead." 
The  angels  sang  their  greeting  for  one  more  redeemed 

from  sin ; 
gathered  round  the  table   Men  said,  "  It  was  a  bitter  night;  would  no  one  let 
^  I         her  in?" 

And  they  shivered  as  they  spoke  of  her,  and  sighed  : 

they  could  not  see 
How  much  of  happiness  there  was  after  that  misery. 
Hans  Christian  Andersen. 


THOU  ART  GONE  TO  THE  GRAVE. 

HOU  art  gone  to  the  grave — we  no  longer  de- 
plore thee. 
Though  sorrows  and  darkness  encompass 
the  tomb ; 

The  Saviour  has  passed  through  its  portals  before  tiiee, 
And  the  lamp  of  His  love  is  thy  guide  through  the 
gloom. 

Thou  art  gone  to  the  grave — we  no  longer  behold  thee, 
Nor  tread  the  rough  path  of  the  world  by  thy  side  ; 

But  the  wide  arms  of  mercy  are  spread  to  enfold  thee, 
And  sinners  may  hope,  since  the  sinless  has  died. 


SORROW  AND   ADVERSITY. 


325 


Thou  art  gone  to  the  grave — and,  its  mansion  for- 
saking, 
Perhaps  thy  tried  spiril  in  doubt  lingered  long, 
But  the  sunshine  of  heaven  beamed  bright  on  thy 
waking. 
And  the  song  which  thou  heard'st  was  the  sera- 
phim's song. 

Thou  art  gone  to  the  grave — but  'twere  wrong  to  de- 
plore thee. 
When  God  was  thy  ransom,  thy  guardian,  thy  guide  ; 
He  gave  thee,  and  took  thee,  and  soon  will  restore 
thee, 
Where  death  hath  no  sting,  since  the  Saviour  hath 
died. 

Bishop  Reginald  Heber. 


THE  LOT  OF  THOUSANDS. 

HEN  hope  lies  dead  within  the  heart, 
By  secret  sorrow  close  concealed, 
We  shrink  lest  looks  or  words  impart 
What  must  not  be  revealed. 


'Tis  hard  to  smile  when  one  would  weep  ; 

To  speak  when  one  should  silent  be  ; 
To  wake  when  one  should  wish  to  sleep, 

And  wake  to  agony. 

Yet  such  the  lot  by  thousands  cast 
Who  wander  in  this  world  of  care, 

And  bend  beneath  the  bitter  blast, 
To  save  them  from  despair. 

But  nature  waits  her  guests  to  greet, 
Where  disappointment  cannot  come  ; 

And  time  guides  with  unerring  feet 
The  weary  wanderers  home. 

Mrs.  Hunter. 


THE  LITTLE  GRAVE. 

---  T'S  only  a  little  grave,"  they  said, 
4  4  .^.     "  Only  just  a  child  that's  dead  ;" 

And  so  they  carelessly  turned  away 
From  the  mound  the  spade  had  made  that  day. 
Ah  !  they  did  not  know  how  deep  a  shade 
That  little  grave  in  our  home  had  made. 

I  know  the  coffin  was  narrow  and  small. 

One  yard  would  have  served  for  an  ample  pall. 

And  one  man  in  his  arms  could  have  borne  away 

The  rosebud  and  its  freight  of  clay. 

But  I  know  that  darling  hopes  were  hid 

Beneath  that  little  coffin  lid. 

I  knew  that  a  mother  had  stood  that  day 
With  folded  hands  by  that  form  of  clay  ; 
I  know  that  burning  tears  were  hid, 
"  'Neath  the  drooping  lash  and  aching  lid  ;" 


And  I  knew  her  lip,  and  cheek,  and  brow, 
Were  almost  as  white  as  her  baby's  now. 

I  knew  that  some  things  were  hid  away, 
The  crimson  frock  and  wrappings  gay, 
The  little  sock  and  half-worn  shoe, 
The  cap  with  its  plumes  and  tas«els  blue  ; 
An  empty  crib  with  its  covers  spread. 
As  white  as  the  face  of  the  sinless  dead. 

'Tis  a  little  grave,  but  O,  beware  ! 

For  world-wide  hopes  are  buried  there  ; 

And  ye  perhaps,  in  coming  years. 

May  see  like  her,  through  blinding  tears, 

How  much  of  light,  how  much  of  joy, 

Is  buried  with  an  only  boy  ! 


THE  WIDOWED  MOTHER. 

|ESIDE  the  babe,  who  sweetly  slept, 
A  widowed  mother  sat  and  wept 

O'er  years  of  love  gone  by  ; 
And  as  the  sobs  thick-gathering  came, 
She  murmured  her  dead  husband's  name 
'Mid  that  sad  lullaby. 

Well  might  that  lullaby  be  sad, 
For  not  one  single  friend  she  had 

On  this  cold-hearted  earth  : 
The  sea  will  not  give  back  its  prey — 
And  they  were  wrapt  in  foreign  clay 

Who  gave  the  orphan  birth. 

Steadfastly  as  a  star  doth  look. 
Upon  a  little  murmuring  brook, 

She  gazed  upon  the  bosom 
And  fair  brow  of  her  sleeping  son — 
"  O  merciful  Heaven  !  when  I  am  gone 

Thine  is  this  earthly  blossom  !" 

While  thus  she  sat — a  sunbeam  broke 
Into  the  room  ;  the  babe  awoke, 

And  from  its  cradle  smiled  1 
Ah  me !  what  kindling  smiles  met  there  ! 
I  know  not  whether  was  more  fair, 

The  mother  or  her  child  ! 

With  joy  fresh-sprung  from  short  alarms. 
The  smiler  stretched  his  rosy  arms, 

And  to  her  bosom  leapt — 
All  tears  at  once  were  swept  away, 
And  said  a  face  as  bright  as  day — 

"  Forgive  me  that  I  wept !" 

Sufferings  there  are  from  nature  sprung, 
Ear  hath  not  heard,  nor  poet's  tongue 

May  venture  to  declare ; 
But  this  as  Holy  Writ  is  sure, 
"  The  griefs  she  bids  us  here  endure 
Can  she  herself  repair!" 

John  Wilson. 


326 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


Q 


THE  MAIDEN'S  GRAVE. 

PALE  weeping-willow  stands  yonder  alone, 
And  mournfully   waves    in  the   zephyr's 
light  breath  ; 
Beneath,   in  its  shadows,   is  sculptured  a 
stone, 
That  tells  of  the  maiden  who  sleeps  there  in  death. 

She  came  to  the  village — a  stranger  unknown — 
Though  fair  as  the  first  flower  that  opens  in  May  ; 

i  he  touches  of  health  from  her  features  had  flown. 
And  she  drooped  like  that  flower  in  its  time  of  de- 
cay. 

She  told  not  her  story,  she  spoke  not  of  sorrow, 
But  laid    herself  down,    and,    heart-broken,   she 
sighed ; 
And,  ere  the  hills  blushed  in  the  dawn  of  the  mor- 
row. 
Uncomplaining  and  silent,  the  sweet  stranger  died. 

Apart  and  alone,  the  sad  villagers  made 
A  cold,  quiet  tomb  in  the  heart  of  the  vale ; 

And  many  a  stranger  has  wept  in  the  shade 
Of  yon  weeping-willow,  to  hear  of  the  tale. 


And  wonder  how  the  grave-gjass 
Can  have  the  heart  to  grow. 

Flow  on,  O  unconsenting  sea, 

And  keep  my  dead  below  : 

The  night-watch  set  for  me  is  long, 
But,  through  it  all,  I  know. 

Or  life  comes,  or  death  comes, 

God  leads  the  eternal  flow. 


Hiram  Rich. 


Ilj 


SHIPWRECKED  HOPES. 

*HE  salt  wind  blows  upon  my  cheek, 
As  it  blew  a  year  ago. 
When  twenty  boats  were  crushed  among 
"f*  The  rocks  of  Norman's  woe  ; 

'T  was  dark  then  ;  'tis  light  now. 

And  the  sails  are  leaning  low; 

In  dreams  I  pull  the  sea-weed  o'er. 

And  find  a  face  not  his. 
And  hope  another  tide  will  be 

More  pitying  than  this ; 
The  wind  turns,  the  tide  turns — 

They  take  what  hope  there  is. 

My  life  goes  on  as  life  must  go. 

With  all  its  sweetness  spilled  ; 

My  God,  why  should  one  heart  of  two 
Beat  on  when  one  is  stilled  ? 

Through  heart-wreck,  or  home-wreck. 
Thy  happy  sparrows  build. 

Though  boats  go  down,  men  build  again. 

Whatever  wind  may  blow  ; 
If  blight  be  in  the  wheat  one  year, 

They  trust  again  and  sow  : 
The  grief  comes,  the  change  comes, 

The  tides  run  high  and  low. 

Some  have  their  dead,  where,  sweet  and  calm, 
The  summers  bloom  and  go ; — 

The  sea  withholds  my  dead  ;  I  walk 
The  bar  when  tides  are  low, 


MAN  WAS  MADE  TO  MOURN. 

Gilbert  Burns,  the  brother  of  the  poet,  says :  "He  (Burns)  used 
to  remark  to  me  that  he  could  not  well  conceive  a  more  mortifying 
picture  of  human  life  than  a  man  seeking  work.  In  casting  about 
in  his  mind  how  this  sentiment  might  be  brought  forward,  the 
elegy,  Man  was  made  to  mourn,  was  composed." 

"^      HEN  chill  November's  surly  blast 
Made  fields  and  forests  bare. 
One  evening,  as  I  wandered  forth, 
Along  the  banks  of  Ayr, 
I  spied  a  man,  whose  aged  step 

Seemed  weary,  worn  with  care ; 
His  face  was  furrowed  o'er  with  years, 
And  hoary  was  his  hair. 

"Young  stranger,  whither  wanderest  thou ?  " 

Began  the  reverend  sage  ;  », 

"  Does  thirst  of  wealth  thy  step  constrain. 
Or  youthful  pleasures  rage  ? 
Or  haply,  prest  with  cares  and  woes. 

Too  soon  thou  hast  began 
To  wander  forth,  with  me,  to  mouni 
The  miseries  of  man ! 

"The  sun  that  overhangs  yon  moors, 

Outspreading  far  and  wide. 
Where  hundreds  labor  to  support 

A  haughty  lordling's  pride — 
I've  seen  yon  weary  winter  sun 

Twice  forty  times  return  ; 
And  every  time  has  added  proofs 

That  man  was  made  to  mourn. 

"  O  man,  while  in  thy  early  years. 

How  prodigal  of  time! 
Misspending  all  thy  precious  hours. 

Thy  glorious  youthful  prime  ! 
Alternate  follies  take  the  sway  :  • 

Licentious  passions  bum ; 
Which  ten-fold  force  gives  nature's  law. 

That  man  was  made  to  mourn. 

"  Look  not  alone  on  youthful  prime. 

Or  manhood's  active  might ; 
Man  then  is  useful  to  his  kind 

Supported  in  his  right ; 
But  see  him  on  the  edge  of  life. 

With  cares  and  sorrows  worn. 
Then  age  and  want,  O  ill-matched  pairl 

Show  man  was  made  to  mourn. 


SORROW  AND   ADVERSITY. 


327 


"A  few  seem  favorites  of  fate, 

In  pleasure's  lap  carest ; 
Yet  think  not  all  the  rich  and  great 

Are  likewise  truly  blest. 
But,  oh,  what  crowds  in  'everj-  land 

Are  wretched  and  forlorn  ! 
Through  weary  life  this  lesson  learn — 

That  man  was  made  to  mourn. 

"  Many  and  sharp  the  numerous  ills, 

Inwoven  with  our  frame  1 
More  pointed  still  we  make  ourselves, 

Regret,  remorse,  and  shame ! 
And  man,  whose  heaven-erected  face 

The  smiles  of  love  adorn, 
Man's  inhumanity  to  man 

Makes  countless  thousands  mourn  ! 

"See  yonder  poor,  o'erlabored  wight, 

So  abject,  mean  and  vile, 
Who  begs  a  brother  of  the  earth 

To  give  him  leave  to  toil ; 
And  see  his  lordly  fellow-worm 

The  poor  petition  spurn. 
Unmindful,  'though  a  weeping  wife 

And  helpless  offspring  mourn. 

*'If  I'm  designed  yon  lord  ling's  slave — 
-.    By  nature's  law  designed — 
Why  was  an  independent  wish 

E  er  planted  in  my  mind  ? 
If  not,  why  am  I  subject  to 

His  cruelty  an  scorn  ? 
Or  why  has  man  the  will  and  power 

To  make  his  fellow  mourn  ? 

"Yet  let  not  this  too  much,  my  son. 

Disturb  thy  youthful  breast : 
This  partial  view  of  humankind 

Is  surely  not  the  last ! 
The  poor,  oppressed,  yet  honest  man 

Had  never,  sure,  been  born, 
Had  there  not  been  some  recompense 

To  comfort  those  that  mourn  ! 

"  O  death !  the  poor  man's  dearest  friend. 
The  kindest  and  the  best ! 
Welcome  the  hour  my  aged  limbs 

Are  laid  with  thee  at  rest ! 
The  great,  the  wealthy,  fear  thy  blow. 

From  pomp  and  pleasure  torn  ; 
But,  oh,  a  blest  relief  to  those 
That  weary-laden  mourn ! " 

Robert  Burns. 


THE  CLOSING  SCENE. 

the  followingr  is  pronounced  by  the  Westminster  Review  to  be 
^unquestionably  the  finest  American  poem  ever  written. 

ITHIN  this  sober  realm  of  leafless  trees. 
The  russet  year  inhaled  the  dreamy  air. 
Like  some  tanned  reaper  in  his  hour  of  ease, 
When  all  the  fields  are  lying  brown  and  bare. 


The  gray  barns  looking  from  their  hazy  hills 
O'er  the  dim  waters  widening  in  the  vales. 

Sent  down  the  air  a  greeting  to  the  mills. 
On  the  dull  thunder  of  alternate  flails. 

All  sights  were  mellowed  and  all  sounds  subdued, 

The  hills  seemed  further  and  the  streams  sang  low  ; 
As  in  a  dream  the  distant  woodman  hewed 
(     His  winter  log  with  many  a  muffled  blow. 

The  embattled  forests,  erewhile  armed  in  gold. 
Their  banners  bright  with  every  martial  hue. 

Now  stood,  like  some  sad,  beaten  host  of  old, 
Withdrawn  afar  in  time's  remotest  blue. 

On  sombre  wings  the  vulture  tried  his  flight. 
The  dove  scarce  heard  his  sighing  mate's  complaint, 

And,  like  a  star  slow  drowning  in  the  light. 
The  village  church-vane  seemed  to  pale  and  faint. 

The  sentinel  cock  upon  the  hill-side  crew — 
Crew  thrice,  and  all  was  stiller  than  before — 

Silent  till  some  replying  wanderer  blew 
His  alien  horn,  and  then  was  heai  d  no  more. 

Where  erst  the  jay  within  the  elm's  tall  crest 

Made  garrulous  trouble  round  the  unfledged  young  : 

And  where  the  oriole  hung  her  swaying  nest 
By  evcrj'  light  wind  like  a  censer  swung ; 

Where  sang  the  noisy  masons  of  the  eaves, 

The  busy  swallows  circling  ever  near. 
Foreboding,  as  the  rustic  mind  believes. 

An  early  harvest  and  a  plenteous  year ; 

Where  every  bird  which  charmed  the  vernal  feast 
Shook  the  sweet  slumber  from  its  wings  at  mom, 

To  warn  the  reapers  of  the  rosy  East — 
All  now  were  songless,  empty,  and  forlorn. 

Alone,  from  out  the  stubble  piped  the  quail, 
And  croaked  ti.e  crow  through    all  the  dreamy 
gloom, 

.\lone  the  pheasant,  drumming  in  the  vale, 
Made  echo  to  the  distant  cottage  loom. 

There  was  no  bud,  no  bloom  upon  the  bowers ; 

The  spiders  wove  their  thin    shrouds    night  by 
night ; 
The  thistle-down,  the  only  ghost  of  flowers. 

Sailed  slowly  by — passed  noiseless  out  of  sight. 

Amid  all  this,  in  this  most  cheerless  ai-^, 

And  where  the  woodbine  sheds  upon  the  porch 
Its  crimson  leaves,  as  if  the  year  stood  there 

Firing  the  floor  with  his  inverted  torch- 
Am  id  all  this,  the  centre  of  the  scene. 

The  white-haired  matron,  with  monotonous  tread, 
Plied  her  swift  wheel,  and  with  her  joyless  mien 

Sat  like  a  fate,  and  watched  the  flying  thread. 

She  had  known  sorrow.     He  had  walked  with  her, 
Oft  supped,  and  broke  with  her  the  ashen  crust ; 

And  in  the  dead  leaves  still  she  heard  the  stir 
Of  his  black  mantle  trailing  in  the  dust. 


328 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


While  yet  her  cheek  was  bright  with  summer  bloom, 
Her  country  summoned,  and  she  gave  her  all ; 

And  twice  war  bowed  to  her  his  sable  plume — 
Re-gave  the  swords  to  rust  upon  her  wall. 

Re-gave  the  swords — but  not  the  hand  that  drew, 
And  struck  for  liberty  the  dying  blow ; 

Nor  him  who,  to  his  sire  and  country  true, 
Fell,  mid  the  ranks  of  the  invading  foe. 

Long,  but  not  loud,  the  droning  wheel  went  on, 
Like  the  low  murmur  of  a  hive  at  noon  ; 

Long,  but  not  loud,  the  memory  of  the  gone 
Breathed  through  her  lips  a  sad  and    tremulous 
tone. 

At  last  the  thread  was  snapped — her  head  was  bowed; 

Life  drooped  the  distaff  through  his  hands  serene  ; 
And  loving  neighbors  smoothed  her  careful  shroud — 

While  death  and  winter  closed  the  autumn  scene. 
Thomas  Buchanan  Read. 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  OLD  YEAR. 

ULL  knee-deep»Hes  the  winter  snow, 
And  the  winter  winds  are  wearily  sighing 
Toll  ye  the  church  bell  sad  and  slow, 
And  tread  softly  and  speak  low, 
For  the  old  year  lies  a-dying. 

Old  year,  you  must  not  die ; 

You  came  to  us  so  readily. 

You  lived  with  us  so  steadily. 

Old  year  you  shall  not  die. 


He  lieth  still :  he  doth  not  move  ; 

He  will  not  see  the  dawn  of  day. 

He  hath  no  other  life  above; 

He  gave  me  a  friend,  and  a  true  love. 

And  the  new  year  will  take  'em  away. 
Old  year,  you  must  not  go  ; 
So  long  you  have  been  with  us. 
Such  joy  as  you  have  seen  with  us. 
Old  year,  you  shall  not  go. 

He  frothed  his  bumpers  to  the  brim  ; 

A  jollier  year  we  shall  no  see. 

But,  though  his  eyes  are  waxing  dim. 

And  though  his  foes  speak  ill  of  him, 

He  was  a  friend  to  me. 
Old  year,  you  shall  not  die  : 
We  did  so  laugh  and  cry  with  you, 
I've  half  a  mind  to  die  with  you, 
Old  year,  if  you  must  die. 

He  was  full  of  joke  and  jest, 
But  all  his  merry  quips  are  o'er. 
To  see  him  die,  across  the  waste 
His  son  and  heir  doth  ride  post-haste. 
But  he'll  be  dead  before. 


Every  one  for  his  own. 
The  night  is  starry  and  cold,  my  friend, 
And  the  New  Year,  blithe  and  bold,  my  friend, 
Comes  up  to  take  his  own. 

How  hard  he  breathes  !  over  the  snow 
I  heard  just  now  the  crowing  cock. 
The  shadows  flicker  to  and  fro  : 
The  cricket  chirps  :  the  light  burns  low  : 
'Tis  nearly  twelve  o'clock. 

Shake  hands  before  you  die. 

Old  year,  we'll  dearly  rue  for  you  ; 

What  is  it  we  can  do  for  you  ? 

Speak  out  before  you  die. 

His  face  is  growing  sharp  and  thin. 
Alack  !  our  friend  is  gone. 
Close  up  his  eyes  :  tie  up  his  chin  : 
Step  from  the  corpse,  and  let  him  in 
That  standeth  there  alone. 

And  waiteth  at  the  door. 

There's  a  new  foot  on  the  floor,  my  friend, 

And  a  new  face  at  the  door,  my  friend, 

A  new  face  at  the  door. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


ONLY  THE  CLOTHES  SHE  WORE. 

'HERE  is  the  hat 

With  the  blue  veil  thrown  'round  it,  just  as 
they  found  it, 
"^        Spotted  aud  soiled,  stained  and  all  spoiled — 
Do  you  recognize  that  ? 

The  gloves,  too,  lie  there, 
And  in  them  still  lingers  the  shape  of  her  fingers. 
That  some  one  has  pressed,  perhaps,  and  caressed, 

So  slender  and  fair. 

There  are  the  shoes, 
With  their  long  silken  laces,  still  bearing  traces, 
To  the  toe's  dainty  tip,  of  the  mud  of  the  slip, 

The  slime  and  the  ooze. 

There  is  the  dress. 
Like  the  blue  veil,  all  dabbled,  discolored  and  drab- 
bled— 
This  vou  should  know  without  doubt,  and,  if  so, 

All  else  you  may  guess. 

There  is  the  shawl, 
With  the  striped  border,  hung  next  in  order. 
Soiled  hardly  less  than  the  white  musHn  dress, 

And— that  is  all. 

Ah,  here  is  a  ring 
We  were  forgetting,  with  a  pearl  setting  ; 
There  was  only  this  one — name  or  date? — none? — 

A  frail,  pretty  thing  ; 


SORROW  AND   ADVERSITY. 


329 


A  keepsake,  maybe, 
The  gift  of  another,  perhaps  a  brother, 
Or  lover,  who  knows  ?  him  her  heart  chose, 

Or  was  she  heart-free  ? 

Does  the  hat  there, 
With  the  blue  veil  around  it,  the  same  as  they  found  it, 
Summon  up  a  fair  face  with  just  a  trace 

Of  gold  in  the  hair? 

Or  does  the  shawl. 
Mutely  appealing  to  some  hidden  feeling, 
A  form,  young  and  slight,  to  your  mind's  sight 

Clearly  recall  ? 

A  month  now  has  passed, 
And  her  sad  history  remains  yet  a  mystery, 
But  these  we  keep  still,  and  shall  keep  them  until 

Hope  dies  at  last. 

Was  she  a  prey 
Of  some  deep  sorrow  clouding  the  morrow, 
Hiding  from  view  the  sky's  happy  blue  ? 

Or  was  there  foul  play  ? 

Alas !  who  may  tell  ? 
Some  one  or  other,  perhaps  a  fond  mother, 
May  recognize  these  whenher  child's  clothes  she  sees; 

Then— will  it  be  well? 

N.  G.  Shepherd. 


VERY  DARK. 

'  HE  crimson  tide  was  ebbing,  and  the  pulse  grew 
weak  and  faint. 
But  the  lips  of  that  brave  soldier  scorned  e'en 
■^  now  to  make  complaint ; 

"Fall  in  rank  !  "  a  voice  called  to  him  ;  calm  and  low 

was  his  reply : 
"Yes,  I  will  if  I  can  do  it— I  will  do  it,  though  I  die." 
And  he  murmured,  when  the  life-light  had  died  out  to 

just  a  spark, 
"It  is    growing    very    dark,    mother — ^growing  very 
dark." 

There  were  tears  in  manly  eyes,  then,  and  manly  heads 
were  bowed. 

Though  the  balls  flew  thick  around  them,  and  the  can- 
nons thundered  loud ; 

They  gathered  round  the  spot  where  the  dying  soldier 
lay. 

To  catch  the  broken  accents  he  was  struggling  then  to 
say; 

And  a  change  came  o'er  the  features  where  death  had 
set  his  mark — 

"  It  is  growing  very  dark,  mother — very,  very  dark." 

Far  away  his  mind  had  wandered,  to  Ohio's  hills  and 

vales. 
Where  the  loved  ones  watched  and  waited  with  that 

love  that  never  fails  ; 


He  was  with  them  as  in  childhood,  seated  in  the  cot- 
tage door, 

Where  he  watched  the  evening  shadows  slowly  creep- 
ing on  the  floor ; 

Bend  down  closely,  comrades,  closely,  he  is  speaking 
now,  and  hark — 

"  It  is  growing  very  dark,  mother — ver>',  very  dark." 

He  was  dreaming  of  his  mother — that  her  loving  hand 

was  pressed 
On  his  brow  for  one  short  moment,  ere  he  sank  away 

to  rest ; 
That  her  lips  were  now  imprinting  a  fond  kiss  upon 

his  cheek. 
And  a  voice  he  well  remembered  spoke  so  soft,  and 

low,  and  meek ; 
Her  gentle  form  was  near  him,  her  footsteps  he  could 

mark — 
But—"  It's  growing   very  dark,    mother — very,    very 

dark." 

And  the  eye  that  once  had  kindled,  flashing  forth  with 

patriot  light. 
Slowly  gazing,  vainly  strove  to  pierce  the  gathering 

gloom  of  night ; 
Ah,  poor  soldier !  ah,  fond  mother !  you  are  severed 

now  for  aye ; 
Cold  and  pulseless,  there  he  Heth,  where  he  breathed 

his  life  away ; 
Through  this  heavy  cloud  of  sorrow  shines  there  not 

one  heavenly  spark  ? 
Ah  I  it  has  grown  dark,  mother — ver}%  very  dark. 


THE  BLESSING  OF  ADVERSITY. 

I Y  adversity  are  wrought 

The  greatest  works  of  admiration, 
And  all  the  fair  examples  of  renown 
Out  of  distress  and  misery  are  grown. 

Samuel  Daniel. 


VICTORY  FROM  DEFEAT. 

I  IKE  a  ball  that  bounds 

'    According  to  the  force  with  which 't  was  thrown, 
i     So  in  affliction's  violence,  he  that's  wise 
The  more  he's  cast  down  will  the  higher  rise. 


© 


THE  GAMBLER'S  WIFE. 

ARK  is  the  night.     How  dark  !  No  light !  No 
fire! 
Cold,  on  the  hearth,  the  last  faint  sparks  «c- 
pire ! 
Shivering  she  watches  by  the  cradle  side, 
For  him  who  pledged  her  love — last  year  a  bride  ! 

Hark!     'Tis  his  footstep!       No!— 'Tis  past !— 'Tis 

gone  ! 
Tick  ! — Tick  ! — How  wearily  the  time  crawls  on ! 


330 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


Why  should  he  leave  me  thus? — He  once  was  kind  : 
And    I   believed    'twould   last!— How    mad!— How 
blind ! 

Rest  thee,  babe  ! — Rest  on  ! — 'Tis  hunger's  cry  ! 
Sleep ! — For  there  is  no  food  !— The  font  is  dry ! 
Famine  and  cold  their  wearying  work  have  done. 
My  heart  must  break  !— And  thou  !— The  clock  strikes 

one  1 
Hush  !  'tis  the  dice-box !  Yes?  he's  there  !  he's  there  ! 
For  this — for  this  he  leaves  me  to  despair ! 
Leaves  love  1  leaves  truth  !  his  wife  1  his  child !  For 

what? 
The  wanton's  smile — the  villain — and  the  sot ! 

Yet  I'll  not  curse  him.     No  !  'tis  all  in  vain  ! 
'Tis  long  to  wait,  but  sure  he'll  come  again ! 
And  I  could  starve  and  bless  him  but  for  you. 
My  child  !— His  child  !  Oh,  fiend  !— The  clock  strikes 
two. 

Hark!     How  the  sign-board  creaks!     The  blasts 

howl  by.  , 

Moan  !  moan !    A  dirge  swells  through  the  cloudy 

sky! 
Ha !  'tis  his  knock ! — he    comes  ! — he    comes    once 

more  ! 
'Tis  but  the  lattice  flaps  !    Thy  hope  is  o'er. 

Can  he  desert  me  thus  !    He  knows  I  stay 
Night  after  night,  in  loneliness  to  pray 
For  his  return — and  yet  he  sees  no  tear  ! 
No  !  no !    It  cannot  be  !    He  will  be  here  ! 

Nestle  more  closely,  dear  one,  to  my  heart ! 
Thou'rtcold!    Thou'rt  freezing  I    But  we  will  not 

part ! 
Husband  !  I  die  ! — Father  !  it  is  not  he  ! 
Oh,  God  !  protect  my  child  ! — The  clock  strikes  three. 

They're  gone,  they're  gone !  the  glimmering  spark 

hath  fled  ! 
The  wife  and  child  are  numbered  with  the  dead. 
On  the  cold  earth,  outstretched  in  solemn  rest, 
The  babe  lay  frozen  on  its  mother's  breast ; 
The  gambler  came  at  last — but  all  was  o'er — 
Dread  silence  reigned  around — the  clock  struck  four. 

Dr.  Coaxes. 


A  THOUGHT. 

J  E YOND  the  white  and  fading  ships  whose  sails 
Stand  silver  in  a  sky  of  darkening  gray, 
A  storm  has  passed,  and  only  tossing  spray 
And  roughened  seas  reach  here  to  tell  the 
tale 

Of  vessels  that  will  never  bravely  plough 
O'er  ocean's  treacherous  blue-gray  depths  again. 
A  little  of  the  mortal  fear  and  pain 

All  over  in  the  quiet  closed  eyes  now. 


The  wave  will  roll  with  sparkling,  foamy  play 
To-morrow  on  the  shining,  sun-bright  shore : 

But  to  the  homes  so  happy  yesterday 
Will  come  no  tidings  of  their  loved  ones  more. 

We  sometimes  feel  a  storm  that  hovers  near, 
Yet  fails  to  touch  our  dearest  hope  or  thought : 
A  storm  that  is  to  others  sorrow-fraught. 
We  feel  the  ripple  that  their  sorrow  brought 

And  turn  to  pray — "Thy  vengeance  be  not  here." 


ONLY  A  YEAR. 

NE  year  ago — a  ringing  voice, 
A  clear  blue  eye. 
And  clustering  curls  of  sunny  hair, 
Too  fair  to  die. 


Only  a  year — no  voice,  no  smile. 

No  glance  of  eye. 
No  clustering  curls  of  golden  hair. 

Fair  but  to  die  ! 

One  year  ago — what  loves,  what  schemes 

Far  into  life  ! 
What  joyous  hopes,  what  high  resolves, 

What  generous  strife ! 

The  silent  picture  on  the  wall. 

The  burial  stone 
Of  all  that  beauty,  life  and  joy. 

Remain  alone ! 

One  year — one  year,  one  little  year, 

And  so  much  gone  ! 
And  yet  the  even  flow  of  life 

Moves  calmly  on. 

,  The  grave  grows  green,  the  flowers  bloom  fair 

Above  that  head ; 
No  sorrowing  tint  of  leaf  or  spray 
Says  he  is  dead. 

No  pause  or  hush  of  merry  birds 

That  sing  above. 
Tell  us  how  coldly  sleeps  below 

The  form  we  love. 

Where  hast  thou  been  this  year,  beloved  ? 

What  hast  thou  seen — 
What  visions  fair,  what  glorious  life, 

Where  thou  hast  been  ? 

The  veil !  the  veil !  so  thin,  so  strong 

'Twixt  us  and  thee; 
The  mystic  veil,  when  shall  it  fall, 

That  we  may  see  ? 

Not  dead,  not  sleeping,  not  even  gone. 

But  present  still. 
And  waiting  for  the  coming  hour 

Of  God's  sweet  will. 


SORROW  AND  ADVERSITY. 


331 


Lord  of  the  living  and  the  dead, 

Our  Savior  dear ! 
We  lay  in  silence  at  thy  feet 

This  sad,  sad  year. 

Harriet  Beecher  Stowe. 


BREAK,  BREAK,  BREAK. 

,REAK,  break,  break, 

On  thy  Cold  gray  stones,  O  sea  ! 
And  I  would  that  my  tongue  could  utter 
The  thoughts  that  arise  in  me. 

O  well  for  the  fisherman's  boy, 
That  he  shouts  with  his  sister  at  play  ! 

O  well  for  the  sailor  lad 
That  he  sings  in  his  boat  on  the  bay ! 

And  the  stately  ships  go  on. 

To  the  haven  under  the  hill ; 
But  O  for  the  touch  of  a  vanished  hand; 

And  the  sound  of  a  voice  that  is  still ! 

Break,  break,  break, 

At  the  foot  of  thy  crags,  O  sea  ! 
But  the  tender  grace  of  a  day  that  is  dead 

Will  never  come  back  to  me. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


m 


MOAN,  MOAN.  YE  DYING  GALES. 

OAN,  moan,  ye  dying  gales ! 
The  saddest  of  your  tales 

Is  not  so  sad  as  life  ; 
Nor  have  you  e'er  began 
A  theme  so  wild  as  man, 
Or  with  such  sorrow  rife. 

Fall,  fall,  thou  withered  leaf! 
Autumn  sears  not  like  grief, 

Nor  kills  such  lovely  flowers  ; 
More  terrible  the  storm, 
More  mournful  the  deform, 

When  dark  misfortune  lowers. 

Hush  !  hush !  thou  trembling  lyre, 
Silence,  ye  vocal  choir, 

And  thou,  mellifluous  lute. 
For  man  soon  breathes  his  last, 
And  all  his  hope  is  past, 

And  all  his  music  mute. 

Then,  when  the  gale  is  sighing, 
And  when  the  leaves  are  dying, 
.    And  when  the  song  is  o'er, 
O,  let  us  think  of  those 
Whose  lives  are  lost  in  woes. 
Whose  cup  of  grief  runs  o'er. 

Henry  Nkele. 


RETROSPECTION 

EARS,  idle  tears,  I  know  not  what  they  mean, 
Ttars  from  the  depth  of  some  divine  despair 
Rise  in  the  heart,  and  gather  to  the  eyes, 
In  looking  on  the  happy  autumn  fields. 
And  thinking  of  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Fresh  as  the  first  beam  glittering  on  a  sail. 
That  brings  our  friends  up  from  the  under  world ; 
Sad  as  the  last  which  reddens  over  one 
That  sinks  with  all  we  love  below  the  verge — 
So  sad,  so  fresh,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Ah,  sad  and  strange  as  in  dark  summer  dawns 
The  earliest  pipe  of  half-awakened  birds 
To  dying  ears,  when  unto  dying  eyes 
The  casement  slowly  grows  a  glimmering  square ; 
So  sad,  so  strange,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Dear  as  remembered  kisses  after  death, 
And  sweet  as  those  by  hopeless  fancy  feigned 
On  lips  that  are  for  others  ;  deep  as  love, 
Deep  as  first  love,  and  wild  with  all  regret — 
O  death  in  life,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


iIj 


PERISHED. 

AVE  after  wave  of  greenness  rolling  down 
From  mountain  top  to  base,  a  whispering  sea 
Of  affluent  leaves  through  which  the  view- 
less breeze 

Murmurs  mysteriously. 


And  towering  up  amid  the  lesser  throng, 
A  giant  oak,  so  desolately  grand, 
Stretches  its  gray  imploring  arms  to  Heaven 
In  agonized  demand. 

Smitten  by  lightning  from  a  summer  sky, 
Or  bearing  in  its  heart  a  slow  decay. 
What  matters  since  inexorable  fate 
Is  pitiless  to  slay. 

Ah,  wayward  soul,  hedged  in  and  clothed  about. 
Doth  not  tliy  life's  lost  hope  lift  up  its  head, 
And,  dwarfing  present  joys,  proclaim  aloud — 
"  Look  on  me,  I  am  dead  ! " 

Mary  Louise  Ritter. 


THE  FEMALE  CONVICT. 

HE  shrank  from  all,  and  her  silent  mood 
Made  her  wish  only  for  solitude  ; 
Her  eye  sought  the  ground  as  it  could  not 
brook,  \ 

For  innermost  shame,  on  another's  look ; 
And  the  cheerings  of  comfort  fell  on  her  ear 
Like  deadliest  words,  that  were  curses  to  hear ! — 


332 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


She  still  was  young,  and  she  had  been  fair ; 
But  weather-stains,  hunger,  toil  and  care, 
That  frost  and  fever  that  wear  the  heart. 
Had  made  the  colors  of  youth  depart 
From  the  sallow  cheek,  save  over  it  came 
The  burning  flush  of  the  spirit's  shame. 

They  were  sailing  over  the  salt  sea-foam. 
Far  from  her  country,  far  from  her  home  ; 
And  all  she  had  left  for  her  friends  to  keep 
Was  a  name  to  hide  and  a  memory  to  weep ! 
And  her  future  held  forth  but  the  felon's  lot — 
To  live  forsaken,  to  die  forgot ! 
She  could  not  weep,  and  she  could  not  pray, 
But  she  wasted  and  withered  from  day  to  day. 
Till  you  might  have  counted  each  sunken  vein. 
When  her  wrist  was  prest  by  the  iron  chain  ; 
And  sometimes  I  thought  her  large  dark  eye 
Had  the  glisten  of  red  insanity. 

She  called  me  once  to  her  sleeping-place, 

A  strange,  wild  look  was  upon  her  face, 

Her  eye  flashed  over  her  cheek  so  white, 

Like  a  gravestone  seen  in  the  pale  moonlight, 

And  she  spoke  in  a  low,  unearthly  tone — 

The  sound  from  mine  ear  hath  never  gone  ! — 

"  I  had  last  night  the  loveliest  dream  : 

My  own  land  shone  in  the  summer  beam, 

I  saw  the  fields  of  the  golden  grain, 

I  heard  the  reaper's  harvest  strain ; 

There  stood  on  the  hills  the  green  pine-tree. 

And  the  thrush  and  the  lark  sang  merrily. 

A  long  and  a  weary  way  I  had  come; 

But  I  stopped,  methought,  by  mine  own  sweet  home. 

I  stood  by  the  hearth,  and  my  father  sat  there, 

With  pale,  thin  face,  and  snow-white  hair ! 

The  Bible  lay  open  upon  his  knee, 

But  he  closed  the  book  to  welcome  me. 

He  led  me  next  where  my  mother  lay, 

And  together  we  knelt  by  her  grave  to  pray, 

And  heard  a  hymn  it  was  heaven  to  hear, 

For  it  echoed  one  of  my  young  days  dear. 

This  dream  has  waked  feelings  long,  long  since  fled. 

And  hopes  which  I  deemed  in  my  heart  were  dead  ! 

— We  have  not  spoken,  but  still  I  have  hung 

On  the  northern  accents  that  dwell  on  thy  tongue. 

To  me  they  are  music,  to  me  they  recall 

The  things  long  hidden  by  memory's  pall ! 

Take  this  long  curl  of  yellow  hair, 

And  give  it  my  father,  and  tell  him  my  prayer, 

My  dying  prayer,  was  for  him." 

Next  day 
Upon  the  deck  a  coffin  lay  ; 
They  raised  it  up,  and  like  a  dirge 
The  heavy  gale  swept  over  the  surge  ; 
The  corpse  was  cast  to  the  wind  and  wave — 
The  convict  has  found  in  the  green  sea  a  grave. 

Letitia  Elizabeth  Landon. 


.     THE  DREAMER. 

From  "  Poems  by  a  Seamstress." 

ROT  in  the  laughing  bowers, 
Where  by  green  swinging  elms  a  pleasant 
shade 
At  summer's  noon  is  made. 
And  where  swift-footed  hours 
Steal  the  rich  breath  of  enamored  flowers. 
Dream  I.     Nor  where  the  golden  glories  be. 
At  sunset,  laving  o'er  the  flowing  sea  ; 
And  to  pure  eyes  the  faculty  is  given 
To  trace  a  smooth  ascent  from  earth  to  heaven  ! 

Not  on  a  couch  of  ease, 
With  all  the  appliances  of  joy  at  hand — 
Soft  light,  sweet  fragrance,  beauty  at  command ; 

Viands  that  might  a  godlike  palate  please. 

And  music's  soul-creative  ecstasies, 
Dream  I.     Nor  gloating  o'er  a  wide  estate. 
Till  the  full,  self-complacent  heart  elate. 
Well  satisfied  with  bliss  of  mortal  birth. 
Sighs  for  an  immortality  on  earth  ! 

But  where  the  incessant  din 
Of  iron  hands,  and  roar  of  brazen  throats. 
Join  their  unmingled  notes, 

While  the  long  summer  day  is  pouring  in, 
Till  day  is  gone,  and  darkness  doth  begih. 
Dream  I — as  in  the  corner  where  I  lie. 
On  wintry  nights,  just  covered  from  the  sky  ! — 
Such  is  my  fate — and,  barren  though  it  seem. 
Yet,  thou  blind,  soulless  scorner,  yet  I  dream  ! 

And  yet  I  dream — 
Dream  what,  were  men  more  just,  I  might  have  been  ; 
How  strong,  how  fair,  how  kindly  and  serene. 
Glowing  of  heart,  and  glorious  of  mien  ; 
The  conscious  crown  to  nature's  blissful  scene, 
In  just  and  equal  brotherhood  to  glean. 
With  all  mankind,  exhaustless  pleasure  keen — 

Such  is  my  dream  I 

.  And  yet  I  dream — 
I,  the  despised  of  fortnne,  lift  mine  eyes, 
Bright  with  the  lustre  of  integrity,     , 
In  unappealing  wretchedness,  on  high. 
And  the  last  rage  of  destiny  defy ; 
Resolved  alone  to  live — alone  to  die. 
Nor  swell  the  tide  of  human  misery  I 

And  yet  I  dream — 
Dream  of  a  sleep  where  dreams  no  more  shall  come. 
My  last,  my  first,  my  only  welcome  home  ! 
Rest,  unbeheld  since  life's  beginning  stage, 
Sole  remnant  of  my  glorious  heritage. 
Unalienable,  I  shall  find  thee  yet. 
And  in  thy  soft  embrace  the  past  forget ! 

Thus  do  I  dream  ! 


SORROW   AND   ADVERSITY. 


333 


LOSSES. 

PON  the  white  sea-sand 

There  sat  a  pilgrim  band, 
Telling  the  losses  that  their  lives  had  known ; 
While  evening  waned  away 
From  breezy  cliff  and  bay, 
And  the  strong  tides  went  out  with  weary  moan. 

One  spake,  with  quivering  lip, 

Of  a  fair  freighted  ship, 
With  all  his  household  to  the  deep  gone  down  ; 

But  one  had  wilder  woe — 

For  a  fair  face,  long  ago 
Lost  in  the  darker  depths  of  a  great  town. 

There  were  who  mourned  their  youth 

With  a  most  loving  ruth. 
For  its  brave  hopes  and  memories  ever  green ; 

And  one  upon  the  West 

Turned  an  eye  that  would  not  rest, 
For  far-off  hills  whereon  its  joy  had  been. 

Some  talked  of  vanished  gold, 

Some  of  proud  honors  told. 
Some  spake  of  friends  that  were  their  trust  no  more 

And  one  of  a  green  grave 

Beside  a  foreign  wave. 
That  made  him  sit  so  lonely  on  the  shore. 

But  when  their  tales  were  done. 

There  spake  among  them  one, 
A  stranger,  seeming  from  all  sorrow  free : 

"  Sad  losses  have  ye  met, 

But  mine  is  heavier  yet ; 
For  a  believing  heart  hath  gone  from  me." 

"Alas  !"  these  pilgrims  said, 

"  For  the  living  and  the  dead — 
For  fortune's  cruelty,  for  love's  sure  cross. 

For  the  wrecks  of  land  and  sea  ! 

But,  however  it  came  to  thee. 
Thine,  stranger,  is  life's  last  and  heaviest  loss." 

Frances  Brown. 


THE  PAUPER'S  DRIVE. 


jolly 


HERE'S  a  grim  one-horse  hearse 
round  trot — 
To  the  churchyard  a  pauper  is  going,  I  wot ; 
I        The  road  it  is  rough,  and  the  hearse  has  no 
springs ; 
And  hark  to  the  dirge  which  tlie  mad  driver  sings  : 
"  Rattle  his  bones  over  the  stones  ! 
He's  only  a  pauper  whom  nobody  owns  !  " 

O,  where  are  the  mourners  ?    Alas  !  there  are  none  ; 
He  has  left  not  a  gap  in  the  world,  now  he's  gone — 
Not  a  tear  in  the  eye  of  child,  woman,  or  man  ; 
To  the  grave  with  his  carcass  as  fast  as  you  can  : 
"Rattle  his  bones  over  the  stones  ! 
He's  only  a  pauper  whom  nobody  owns ! " 


What  a  jolting  and  creaking  and  splashing  and  din ! 
The  whip,  how  it  cracks ;  and  the  wheels,  how  they 

spin ! 
How  the  dirt,  right  and  left,  o'er  the  hedges  is  hurled ! 
The  pauper  at  length  makes  a  noise  in  the  world  ! 
"  Rattle  his  bones  over  the  stones  ! 
He's  only  a  pauper  whom  nobody  owns  !  " 

Poor  pauper  defunct !  he  has  made  some  approach 
To  gentility,  now  that  he's  stretched  in  a  coach  ! 
He's  taking  a  drive  in  his  carriage  at  last ; 
But  it  will  not  be  long,  if  he  goes  on  so  fast : 
"  Rattle  his  bones  over  the  stones  ! 
He's  only  a  pauper  whom  nobody  owns  ! " 

You  bumpkins  !  who  stare  at  your  brother  conveyed, 
Behold  what  respect  to  a  cloddy  is  paid ! 
And  be  joyful  to  think,  when  by  death  you're  laid  low 
You've  a  chance  to  the  grave  like  a  "gemman"  to  go ! 
"  Rattle  his  bones  over  the  stones  ! 
He's  only  a  pauper  whom  nobody  owns  !  " 

But  a  truce  to  this  strain  ;  for  my  soul  it  is  sad. 
To  think  that  a  heart  in  humanity  clad 
Should  make,  like  the  brute,  such  a  desolate  end. 
And  depart  from  the  light  without  leaving  a  friend  ! 
"  Bear  soft  his  bones  over  the  stones  ! 
Though  a  pauper,  he's  one  whom  his  Maker  yet 
owns !" 

Thomas  Noel, 


i!j 


ON  THE  FRONTIER. 

HAT  !    Robbed  the  mail  at  midnight !    We'll 
trail  them  down,  you  bet ! 
We'll  bring  them  to  the  halter ;  I'm  sheriff 
of  Yuba  yet. 
Get  out  those  mustangs,  hearties,  and  long  before  set 

of  sun 
We'll  trail  them  down  to  their  refuge,  and  justice  shall 
yet  be  done. 

It's  pleasant,  this  rude  experience ;  life  has  a  rugged 
zest 

Here  on  the  plains  and  mountains,  far  to  the  open 
west : 

Look  at  those  snow-capped  summits — waves  of  an  end- 
less sea ; 

Look  at  yon  billowed  prairie,  boundless  as  grand  and 
free. 

Ah !  we  have  found  our  quarry  I  yonder  within  the 

bush ! 
Empty  your  carbines  at  them,  then  follow  me  with  a 

rush ! 
Down  with  the  desperadoes!    Ours   is  the  cause  of 

right ! 
Though  they  should  slash  like  demons,  still  we  must 

gain  the  fight ! 


334 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


Pretty  hot  work,  McGregor,  but  we  have  gained  the  day. 
What?    Have  we  lost  their  leader?     Can  he  have 

sneaked  away  ? 
There  he  goes  in  the  chaparral  I    He'll  reach  it  now  in 

a  bound  I 
Give  me  that  rifle,  Parker  1    I'll  bring  him  down  to  the 

ground. 

There,  I  knew  I  could  drop  him ;  that  little  piece  of  lead 
Sped  straight  on  to  its  duty.     The  last  of  the  gang  is 

dead. 
He  was  a  handsome  fellow,  plucky  and  fearless,  too ; 
Pity  such  men  are  devils,  preying  on  those  more  true. 

What  have  found  in  his  pockets  ?    Papers  ?  Let's  take 

a  look. 
"George  Walgrave"  stamped  on  the  cover?    Why, 

that  is  my  brother's  book  ; 
The  deeds  and  the  papers  also,  and  letters  received 

from  me ; 
He  must  have  met  these  demons.  Been  murdered  and 

robbed,  you  see. 

And  I  have  been  his  avenger !  It  is  years  since  last  we 
met. 

We  loved  each  other  dearly,  and  Walgraves  never  for- 
get. 

If  my  voice  is  broken,  excuse  me.  Somehow  it  con- 
fines my  breath — 

Let  me  look  on  the  face  of  that  demon  who  dogged 
poor  George  to  his  death ! 

Good  God !  It  is  he ;  my  brother !  killed  by  my  own 

strong  hand ! 
He  is  no  bandit  leader !    This  is  no  robber  band ! 
What    a   mad,    murderous    blunder!    Friends,    who 

thought  they  were  foes. 
Seven  men  dead  on  the  prairie,   and  seven  homes 

flooded  with  woes. 

And  to  think  that  I  should  have  done  it !    When  ere 

many  suns  should  set, 
I  hoped  to  embrace  my  brother — and  this  is  the  way 

we've  met ! 
He  with  his  dead  eyes  gazing  up  to  the  distant  sky. 
And  I  his  murderer,  standing,  living  and  unharmed, 

by! 

Well,  his  fate  is  the  best  one !    Mine,  to  behold  his 

corse 
Haunting  my  life  forever  ;  doomed  to  a  vain  remorse. 
How  shall  I  bear  its  shadows?  How  could  this  strange 

thing  be  ? 
O  my  brother  and  playmate  !    Would  I  had  died  for 

thee! 

Pardon  my  weak  emotion.  Bury  them  here  my  friends; 
Here,  where  the  green  plumed  willow  over  the  prairie 

bends. 
One  more  tragedy  finished  in  the  romance  of  strife. 
Passing  like  sombre  shadows  over  this  frontier  life. 

J.  Edgar  Jones. 


PRINCE'S  FEATHER. 

SAT  at  work  one  summer  day, 
It  was  breezy  August  v/eather, 
And  my  little  boy  ran  in  from  his  play, 
With  a  bright  red  prince's  feather. 
"  Make  me  a  cocked  hat,  mother  dear," 
He  cried,  "  and  put  this  in  it ; 
Dick  and  Charlie  are  coming  here, 
And  I  want  it  done  in  a  minute  !" 

It  was  but  one  little  boy  I  had. 

And  I  dearly  loved  to  please  him  ; 
When  such  a  trifle  would  make  him  glad, 

Be  sure  I  did  not  tease  him. 
I  dropped  my  work  with  a  merry  heart. 

And  Willie  and  I  together— 
We  made  the  cocked-hat  gay  and  smart. 

With  its  plume  of  prince's  feather. 

I  set  it  firmly  on  his  bonny  head, 

Where  the  yellow  curls  were  dancing, 
I  kissed  his  cheeks  tiiat  were  rosy  red, 

And  his  mouth  where  smiles  were  glancing ; 
Then  off"  he  ran,  the  beautiful  boy  ! 

My  eager  eyes  ran  after. 
And  my  heart  brimmed  over  with  loving  joy, 

At  the  ring  of  his  happy  laughter. 

Back  to  their  work  my  fingers  flew, 

I  was  sewing  a  frock  for  Willie — 
A  little  white  frock  with  a  band  of  blue, 

That  would  make  him  look  like  a  lily, 
For  he  was  fair  as  a  flower,  with  eyes 

Of  the  real  heavenly  color  ; 
They  were  like  the  blue  of  the  August  skies, 

And  only  the  least  bit  duller. 

I  never  guessed  when  he  ran  from  me, 

With  his  laugh  out-ringing  cheerly, 
That  it  was  the  last  time  I  should  see 

Those  blue  eyes  loved  so  dearly. 
I  sat  at  my  work,  and  I  sang  aloud 

From  a  glad  heart  overflowing, 
Nor  ever  dreamed  it  was  Willie's  shroud 

That  I  was  so  busy  sewing. 

I  folded  the  frock  away  complete, 

And  I  had  no  thought  of  sorrow, 
But  only  that  Willie  would  look  so  sweet 

When  I  dressed  him  in  it  to-morrow. 
And  down  to  the  garden  gate  I  ran, 

For  I  thought  I  heard  them  drumming, 
To  see  if  perhaps  my  little  man. 

And  Charlie  and  Dick  were  coming. 

Some  one  spoke  as  I  reached  the  gate, 
(He  was  Charlie's  grown-up  brother), 
"Wait !  "  he  said  in  a  whisper,  "  wait ! 
We  must  break  it  to  his  mother ! " 


SORROW  AND   ADVERSITY. 


335 


"  Break  it — what  ? "     My  ears  were  quick, 
And  I  shrieked  out  wild  and  shrilly, 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  Charlie  and  Dick  ? 
What  have  you  done  with  my  Willie? " 

The  boys  shrank  frightened  away  at  that, 

And  huddled  closer  together  ; 
But  one  of  them  showed  me  the  little  cocked  hat 
With  the  wilted  prince's  feather. 
"What  does  this  mean?    Is  Willie  dead? " 

He  began  to  tremble  and  shiver : 
"We  were  skipping  stones,"  with  a  gasp  he  said, 
"And  Wil'ie— fell  in  the  river  !" 

I  asked  no  more.    They  brought  him  home — 

My  Willie  !  my  little  Willie  ! 
His  curls  all  tangled  and  wet  with  foam, 

His  white  face  set  so  stilly. 
I  combed  the  curls,  though  my  eyes  w6re  dim, 

And  my  heart  was  sick  with  sorrow ; 
And  the  little  frock  I  made  for  him 

He  wore  indeed  on  the  morrow. 

Somewhere,  carefully  laid  away, 

Through  summer  and  winter  weather, 
I  keep  the  hat  that  he  wore  that  day, 

And  the  bit  of  prince's  feather. 
It  is  only  dust  that  was  once  a  flower. 

But  there  never  will  bloom  another 
In  sun  or  shower,  that  will  have  such  power 

To  wring  the  heart  of  his  mother. 

Mary  E.  Bradley. 


THE    LAST   HOURS  OF  LITTLE  PAUL 
DOMBEY. 

^AUL  had  never  risen  from  his  little  bed.  He  lay 
there,  listening  to   the  noises  in  the  street, 
quite  tranquilly ;    not  caring  much  how  the 
time  went,  but  watching  everything  about  him 
with  observing  eyes. 

When  the  sunbeams  struck  into  his  room  through 
the  rustling  blinds,  and  quivered  on  the  opposite  wall 
like  golden  water,  he  knew  that  evening  was  coming 
on,  and  that  the  sky  was  red  and  beautiful.  As  the  re- 
flection died  away,  and  the  gloom  went  creeping  up 
the  wall,  he  watched  it  deepen,  deepen,  deepen  into 
night.  Then  he  thought  how  the  long  streets  were 
dotted  with  lamps,  and  how  the  peaceful  stars  were 
shining  overhead.  His  fancy  had  a  strange  tendency 
to  wander  to  the  river,  which  he  knew  was  flowing 
through  the  great  city ;  and  now  he  thought  how  black 
it  was,  and  how  deep  it  would  look,  reflecting  the 
hosts  of  stars,  and  more  than  all,  how  steadily  it  rolled 
away  to  meet  the  sea. 

As  it  grew  later  in  the  night,  and  footsteps  in  the 
street  became  so  rare  that  he  could  hear  them  coming, 
count  them  as  they  passed,  and  lose  them  in  the  hol- 
low distance,  he  would  lie  and  watch  the  many-colored 
ring  about  the  candle,  and  wait  patiently  for  day.     His 


only  trouble  was,  the  swift  and  rapid  river.  He  felt 
forced,  sometimes,  to  try" to  stop  it — to  stem  it  with  his 
childish  hands,  or  choke  its  way  with  sand — and  when 
he  saw  it  coming  on,  resistless,  he  cried  out !  But  a 
word  from  Florence,  who  was  always  at  his  side,  re- 
stored him  to  himself;  and  leaning  his  poor  head  upon 
her  breast,  he  told  Floy  of  his  dream,  and  smiled. 

When  day  began  to  dawn  again,  he  watched  for  the 
sun :  and  when  its  cheerful  light  began  to  sparkle  in 
the  room,  he  pictured  to  himself— pictured  !  he  saw — 
the  high  church-towers  rising  up  into  the  morning  sky, 
the  town  reviving,  waking,  starting  into  life  once  more, 
the  river  glistening  as  it  rolled  (but  rolling  fast  as  ever), 
and  the  country  bright  with  dew.  Familiar  sounds  and 
cries  came  by  degrees  into  the  street  below  ;  the  ser- 
vants in  the  house  were  roused  and  busy  ;  faces  looked 
in  at  the  door,  and  voices  asked  his  attendants  softly 
how  he  was.  Paul  always  answered  for  himself,  "  I  am 
better.  I  am  a  great  deal  better,  thank  you!  Tell 
papa  so!" 

By  little  and  little  he  got  tired.of  the  bustle  of  the 
day,  the  noise  of  carriages  and  carts,  people  passing 
and  repassing ;  and  would  fall  asleep  or  be  troubled 
with  a  restless  and  uneasy  sense  again — the  child  could 
hardly  tell  whether  this  were  in  his  sleeping  or  his 
waking  moments — of  that  rushing  river.  "  Why,  will 
it  never  stop,  Floy?"  he  would  sometimes  ask  her. 
"  It  is  bearing  me  away,  I  think !" 

But  Floy  could  always  soothe  and  reassure  him  ;  and 
it  was  his  daily  delight  to  make  her  lay  her  head  down 
on  his  pillow,  and  take  some  rest. 

"  You  are  always  watching  me,  Floy.  Let  me  watch 
you,  now!  "  They  would  prop  him  up  with  cushions 
in  a  comer  of  his  bed,  and  there  he  would  recline  the 
while  she  lay  beside  him  ;  bending  forward  oftentimes 
to  kiss  her,  and  whispering  to  those  who  were  near 
that  she  was  tired,  and  how  she  had  sat  up  so  many 
nights  beside  him. 

Thus,  the  flush  of  the  day,  in  its  heat  and  light, 
would  gradually  decline  ;  and  again  the  golden  water 
would  be  dancing  on  the  wall. 

He  was  visited  by  as  many  as  three  grave  doctors — 
they  used  to  assemble  down  stairs  and  come  up  to- 
gether-and  the  room  was  so  quiet,  and  Paul  was  so 
observant  of  them  (though  he  never  asked  of  anybody 
what  they  said),  that  he  even  knew  the  difference  in  the 
sound  of  their  watches.  But  his  interest  centered  in 
Sir  Parker  Peps,  who  always  took  his  seat  on  the  side 
of  the  bed.  For  Paul  had  heard  them  say  long  ago, 
that  that  gentleman  had  been  with  his  mamma  when  she 
clasped  Florence  in  her  arms  and  died.  And  he  could 
not  forget  it  now.  He  liked  him  for  it  He  was  not 
afraid. 

Late  one  evening  Paul  closed  his  eyes  and  fell  asleep. 
When  he  awoke,  the  sun  was  high,  and  the  broad  day 
was  clear  and  warm.  He  lay  a  little,  looking  at  the 
windows,  which  were  open,  and  the  curtains  rustling  in 
the  air,  and  waving  to  and  fro  :  then  he  said,  "  Floy,  is 
it  to-morrow  ?    Is  she  come  ? " 


336 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


Some  one  seemed  to  go  in  quest  of  her.  Perhaps  it 
was  Susan.  Paul  thought  lie  heard  ht  r  telling  him, 
when  he  had  closed  his  eyes  again,  that  she  would  soon 
be  back ;  but  he  did  not  open  them  to  see.  She 
kept  her  word — perhaps  she  had  never  been  away — 
but  the  next  thing  that  hpppened  was  a  noise  of  foot- 
steps on  the  stairs,  and  then  Paul  woke — woke  mind 
and  body — and  sat  upright  in  his  bed.  He  saw  tht  m 
now  about  him.  There  was  no  gray  mist  before  them, 
as  there  had  been  sometimes  in  the  night.  He  knew 
them  every  one,  and  called  them  by  their  names. 

"And  who  is  this?  Is  this  my  old  nurse?  said  the 
child,  regarding,  with  a  radiant  smile,  a  figure  com- 
ing in. 

Yes,  yes.  No  other  stranger  would  have  shed  those 
tears  at  the  sight  of  him,  and  called  him  her  dear  boy, 
her  pretty  boy,  her  own  poor  blighted  child.  No 
other  woman  would  have  stooped  down  by  his  bed 
and  taken  up  his  wasted  hand,  and  put  it  to  her  lips 
and  breast,  as  one  who  had  some  right  to  fondle  it. 
No  other  would  have  so  forgotten  everybody  there 
but  him  and  Floy,  and  been  so  full  of  tenderness  and 
pity. 

"Floy  !  this  is  a  kind  good  face  !  "  said  Paul.  "  I 
am  glad  to  see  it  again.  Don't  go  away,  old  nurse  ! 
Stay  here!" 

His  senses  were  all  quickened,  and  he  heard  a  name 
he  knew. 

"Who  was  that?  who  said  Walter?"  he  asked,  look- 
ing round.  "Some  one  said  Walter.  Is  he  here?  I 
should  like  to  see  him  very  much." 

Nobody  replied  directly,  but  his  father  said  to  Su- 
san, "Call  him  back,  then  :  let  him  come  up !  "  After 
a  short  pause  of  expectation,  during  which  he  looked 
with  smiling  interest  and  wonder  on  his  nurse,  and 
saw  that  she  had  not  forgotten  Floy,  Walter  was 
brought  into  the  room.  His  open  face  and  manner, 
and  his  cheerful  eyes,  had  always  made  him  a  favorite 
with  Paul ;  and  when  Paul  saw  him,  he  stretched  out 
his  hand,  and  said,  "  Good-by  ! " 

"  Good-by,  my  child !  "  cried  Mrs.  Pipchin,  hurry- 
ing to  his  bed's  head.     "  Not  good-by  ? " 
For  an  instant,  Paul  looked  at  her  with  the  wistful  face 


with  which  he  had  so  often  gazed  upon  her  in  his  cor- 
ner by  the  fire.    "Ah,  yes,"  he  said,  placidly,  "good- 
by  !  Walter  dear,  good-by  !"  turning  his  head  to  where  , 
he  stood,  and  putting  out  his  hand  again.     "Where  is 
papa?" 

He  felt  his  father's  breath  upon  his  cheek,  before 
the  words  had  parted  from  his  lips. 

"Remember  Walter,  dear  papa,"  he  whispered, 
looking  in  his  face, — "  remember  Walter.  I  was  fond 
of  Walter !  "  The  feeble  hand  waved  in  the  air,  as  if 
it  cried  "good-by  !  "  to  Walter  once  again. 

"  Now  lay  me  down  again,''  he  said  ;  "and  Floy, 
come  close  to  me,  and  let  me  see  you  !  " 

Sister  and  brother  wound  their  arms  around  each 
other,  and  the  golden  light  came  streaming  in,  and 
fell  upon  them,  locked  together. 

"  How  fast  the  river  runs  between  its  green  banks 
and  rushes,  Floy  !  But  its  very  near  the  sea.  I  hear 
the  waves.     They  always  said  so  ! " 

Presently  he  told  her  that  the  motion  of  the  boat 
upon  the  stream  was  lulling  him  to  rest.  How  green 
the  banks  were  now,  how  bright  the  flowers  growing 
on  them,  and  how  tall  the  rushes  I  Now  the  boat 
was  out  at  sea,  but  gliding  smoothly  on.  And  now 
there  was  a  shore  before  him.  Who  stood  on  the 
bank! 

He  put  his  hands  together,  as  he  had  been  used  to 
do  at  his  prayers.  He  did  not  remove  his  arms  to  do 
it,  but  they  saw  him  fold  them  so  behind  her  neck. 

"Mamma  is  like  you,  Floy.  I  know  her  by  the 
face?  But  tell  them  that  the  print  upon  the  stairs  at 
school  is  not  divine  enough.  The  light  about  the 
head  is  shining  on  me  as  I  go  !  " 

The  golden  ripple  on  the  wall  came  back  again,  and 
nothing  else  stirred  in  the  room.  The  old,  old  fashion! 
The  fashion  that  came  in  with  our  first  garments,  and 
will  last  unchanged  until  our  race  has  run  its  course, 
and  the  wide  firmament  is  rolled  up  like  a  scroll. 
The  old,  old  fashion— Death  ! 

O,  thank  God,  all  who  see  it,  for  that  older  fashion 
yet,  of  immortality  !  And  look  upon  us,  angels  of 
young  children,  with  regards  not  quite  estranged, 
when  the  swift  river  bears  us  to  the  ocean  ! 

Charles  Dickens. 


PERSONS  AND  PLACES. 


TO  THOMAS  MOORE. 

Y  boat  is  on  the  shore, 
And  my  bark  is  on 
the  sea ; 
But  before  I  go,  Tom 
Moore, 
Here's    a    double 
health  to  thee  ? 

s  a  sigh  to  those  who 
love  me, 
And  a  smile  to  those  who 
hate; 

whatever  skies  above 
me. 
Here's  a   heart   for   any 
fate. 

Though  the    ocean    roar 
around  me, 
Yet  it  still  shall  bear  me  on  ; 
Though  a  desert  should  surround  me, 
It  hath  springs  that  may  be  won. 

Were't  the  last  drop  in  the  well, 

As  I  gasped  upon  the  brink, 
Ere  my  fainting  spirit  fell, 

'Tis  to  thee  that  I  would  drink. 

With  that  water,  as  this  wine. 

The  libation  I  would  pour 
Should  be — peace  to  thine  and  mine, 

And  a  health  to  thee,  Tom  Moore. 

Lord  Byron. 


THE  BURIAL  OF  SIR  JOHN  MOORE. 

OT  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral  note, 
As  his  corse  to  the  rampart  was  hurried; 
Not  a  soldier  discharged  his  farewell  shot 
O'er  the  grave  where  our  hero  was  buried. 

We  buried  him  darkly  at  dead  of  night, 

The  sods  with  our  bayonets  turning  ; 
By  the  struggling  moonbeams'  misty  light, 

And  the  lantern  dimly  burning. 

No  useless  coffin  enclosed  his  breast, 
Nor  in  sheet  nor  in  shroud  we  wound  him ; 

But  he  lay  like  a  warrior  taking  his  rest, 
With  his  martial  cloak  around  him. 


But  we  steadfastly  gazed  on  the  face  that  was  dead. 
And  we  bitterly  thought  of  the  morrow. 

We  thought,  as  we  hollowed  his  narrow  bed, 
And  smoothed  down  his  lonely  pillow. 

That  the  foe  and  the  stranger  would  tread  o'er  hi? 
head, 
And  we  far  away  on  the  billow ! 

Lightly  they'll  talk  of  the  spirit  that's  gone, 
And  o'er  his  cold  ashes  upbraid  him — 

But  little  he'll  reck,  if  they  let  him  sleep  on 
In  the  grave  where  a  Briton  has  laid  him. 

But  half  our  heavy  task  was  done. 
When  the  clock  struck  the  hour  for  retiring  ; 

And  we  heard  the  distant  and  random  gun 
That  the  foe  was  sullenly  firing. 

Slowly  and  sadly  they  laid  him  down, 

From  the  field  of  hjs  fame  fresh  and  gory ; 

We  carved  not  a  line,  we  raised  not  a  stone — 
But  we  left  him  alone  with  his  glory. 

Charles  Wolfe. 


DIRGE  FOR  A  SOLDIER. 


Major-General  Philip  Kearney,  killed  at  CHA»mLLY, 
Va.,  Sept.  i,  1862. 


Q 


Few  and  ^hort  were  the  prayers  we  said, 
And  we  spoke  not  a  word  of  sorrow ; 

(22) 


LOSE  his  eyes  ;  work  is  done  ! 

What  to  him  is  friend  or  foeman. 
Rise  of  moon  or  set  of  sun. 
Hand  of  man  or  kiss  of  woman  ? 
Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low. 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow  ! 
What  cares  he  ?  he  cannot  know ; 
Lay  him  low ! 

As  man  may,  he  fought  his  fight. 

Proved  his  truth  by  his  endeavor ; 
Let  him  sleep  in  solemn  night, 
Sleep  forever  and  forever. 
Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow  ! 
What  cares  he  ?  he  cannot  know  ; 
Lay  him  low ! 

Fold  him  in  his  country's  stars, 

Roll  the  drum  and  fire  the  volley  ! 
What  to  him  are  all  our  wars? 
What  but  death-bemocking  folly ! 
Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low. 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow  ! 
What  cares  he  !  he  cannot  know  ; 
Lay  him  low ! 


(337) 


338 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


Leave  him  to  God's  watching  eye  ; 

Trust  him  to  the  hand  that  made  him. 
Mortal  love  weeps  idly  by ; 
God  alone  has  power  to  aid  him. 
Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow  : 
What  cares  he  ?  he  cannot  know  ; 
Lay  him  low ! 

George  Henry  Boker. 


WASHINGTON  AS  A  CIVILIAN. 

'OWEVER  his  military  fame  may  excite  the  won- 
der of  mankind,  it  is  chiefly  by  his  civil  magis- 
tracy that  Washington's  example  will  instruct 
them.  Great  generals  have  arisen  in  all  ages 
of  the  world,  and  perhaps  most  in  those  of  despotism 
and  darkness.  In  times  of  violence  and  convulsion 
they  rise,  by  the  force  of  the  whirlwind,  high  enough 
to  ride  in  it  and  direct  the  storm.  Like  meteors,  they 
glare  on  the  black  clouds  with  a  splendor  that,  while  it 
dazzles  and  terrifies,  makes  nothing  visible  but  the 
darkness.  The  fame  of  heroes  is  indeed  growing  vul- 
gar :  they  multiply  in  every  long  war ;  they  stand  in 
history,  and  thicken  in  their  ranks  almost  as  undistin- 
guished as  their  own  soldiers. 

But  such  a  chief  magistrate  as  Washington  appears 
like  the  pole-star  in  a  clear  sky,  to  direct  the  skilful 
statesman.  His  presidency  will  form  an  epoch,  and  be 
distinguished  as  the  age  of  Washington.  Already  it 
assumes  its  high  place  in  the  political  region.  Like  the 
milky  way,  it  whitens  along  its  allotted  portion  of  the 
hemisphere.  The  latest  generations  of  men  will  sur- 
vey, through  the  telescope  of  history,  the  space  where 
so  many  virtues  blend  their  rays,  and  delight  to  sepa- 
rate them  into  groups  and  distinct  virtues.  As  the 
best  illustration  of  them,  the  living  monument  to 
which  the  first  of  patriots  would  have  chosen  to  consign 
his  fame,  it  is  our  earnest  prayer  to  Heaven  that  our 
country  may  subsist,  even  to  that  late  day,  in  the  pleni- 
tude of  its  liberty  and  happiness,  and  mingle  its  mild 
glory  with  Washington's. 

The  announcement  of  the  afflicting  event  of  his 
death  was  made  in  the  House  of  Representatives  as 
soon  as  the  news  reached  Philadelphia,  by  John  Mar- 
shall, then  a  member  of  Congress  from  Virginia.  Both 
houses  immediately  adjourned.  The  whole  country 
was  filled  with  gloom  by  the  intelligence.  Men  of 
all  parties  in  politics,  and  creeds  in  religion,  united 
with  Congress  in  paying  honor  to  the  memory  of  the 
citizen  who,  in  the  language  of  the  resolution  of  Mar- 
sliall  adopted  by  the  House,  "was  first  in  war,  first  in 
peace,  and  first  in  the  hearts  of  his  countrymen." 

These  manifestations  were  no  mere  outward  sem- 
blance of  grief,  but  the  natural  outbursts  of  the  hearts  of 
the  people,  prompted  by  the  loss  of  a  father.  He  was 
indeed  everywhere  regarded  as  the  "Father  of  His 
Country."  His  remains  were  deposited  in  a  family 
vault,  on  his  own  estate,  on  the  banks  of  the  Potomac, 
where  they  still  lie  entombed. 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON. 

From  "Under  the  Elm,"  read  at  Cambridge,  July  3,  1875,  on  the 
hundredth  anniversary  of  Washington's  taking  command  of  the 
Aoietican  army.  > 

ENEATH  our  consecrated  elm 
A  century  ago  he  stood. 

Famed  vaguely  for  that  old  fight  in  the  wood. 
Which  redly  foamdd  round  him  but  could  not 
overwhelm 
The  life  foredoomed  to  wield  our  rough-hewn  helm. 
From  colleges,  where  now  the  gown 
To  arms  had  yielded,  from  the  town. 
Our  rude  self-summoned  levies  flocked  to  see 
The  new-come  chiefs  and  wonder  wJiich  was  he. 
No  need  to  question  long  ;  close-lipped  and  tall. 
Long  trained  in  murder-brooding  forests  lone 
To  bridle  others'  clamors  and  his  own, 
Firmly  erect,  he  towered  above  them  all, 
The  incarnate  discipline  that  was  to  free 
With  iron  curb  that  armed  democracy. 
Haughty  they  said  he  was,  at  first,  severe. 
But  owned,  .as  all  men  owned,  the  steady  hand 
Upon  the  bridle,  patient  to  command. 
Prized,  as  all  prize,  the  justice  pure  from  fear. 
And  learned  to  honor  first,  then  love  him,  then  revere. 
Such  power  there  is  in  clear-eyed  self-restraint. 
And  purpose  clean  as  light  from  every  selfish  taint. 

Musing  beneath  the  legendary  tree, 

The  years  between  furl  off:  I  seem  to  see 

The  sun-flecks,  shaken  the  sdrred  foliage  through. 

Dapple  with  gold  his  sober  buff  and  blue. 

And  weave  prophetic  aureoles  round  the  head 

Tiiat  shines  our  beacon  now,  nor  darkens  with  the  dead 

O  man  of  silent  mood, 

A  stranger  among  strangers  then. 

How  art  thou  since  renowned  the  great,  the  good, 

Familiar  as  the  day  in  all  the  homes  of  men  ! 

The  winged  years,  that  winnow  praise  and  blame. 

Blow  many  names  out :  they  but  fan  to  flame 

The  self- renewing  splendors  of  thy  fame. 

O,  for  a  drop  of  that  terse  Roman's  ink 

Who  gave  Agricola  dateless  length  of  days. 

To  celebrate  him  fitly,  neither  swerve 

To  phrase  unkempt,  nor  pass  discretion's  brink, 

With  him  so  statuelike  in  sad  reserve. 

So  diffident  to  claim,  so  forward  to  deserve ! 

Nor  need  I  shun  due  influence  of  his  fame 

Who,  rnortal  among  mortals,  seemed  as  now 

The  equestrian  shape  with  unimpassioned  brow. 

That  paces  silent  on  through  vistas  of  acclaim. 

What  figure  more  immovably  august 

Than  that  grave  strength  so  patient  and  so  pure, 

Calm  in  good  fortune,  when  it  wavered,  sure. 

That  soul  serene  impenetrably  just. 

Modelled  on  classic  lines,  so  simple  they  endure  ? 

That  soul  so  softly  radiant,  and  so  white, 

The  track  it  left  seems  less  of  fire  than  light. 

Cold  but  to  such  as  love  distemperature  ? 


PERSONS   AND    PLACES. 


339 


And  if  pure  light,  as  some  deem,  be  the  force 

That  drives  rejoicing  planets  on  their  course, 

Why  for  his  power  benign  seek  an  impurer  source  ? 

His  was  the  true  enthusiasm  that  burns  long. 

Domestically  bright. 

Fed  from  itself  and  shy  of  human  sight, 

The  hidden  force  that  makes  a  lifetime  strong, 

And  not  the  short-lived  fuel  of  a  song. 

Passionless,  say  you  ?    What  is  passion  for 

But  to  sublime  our  natures  and  control 

To  front  heroic  toils  with  late  return, 

Or  none,  or  such  as  shames  the  conqueror  ? 

That  fire  was  fed  with  substance  of  the  soul. 

And  not  with  holiday  stubble,  that  could  bum 

Through  seven  slow  j'ears  of  unadvancmg  war. 

Equal  when  fields  were  lost  or  fields  were  won, 

With  breath  of  popular  api)lause  or  blame, 

Nor  fanned,  nor  damped,  unquenchably  the  same. 

Too  inward  to  be  reached  l^y  flaws  of  idle  fame. 

Soldier  and  statesman,  rarest  unison  ; 
High-poised  example  of  great  duties  done 
Simply  as  breathing,  a  world's  honors  worn 
As  life's  indifferent  gifts  to  all  men  born  ; 
Dumb  for  himself,  unless  it  were  to  God, 
But  for  Lis  barefoot  soldiers  eloquent, 
Tramping  the  snow  to  coral  where  they  trod. 
Held  by  his  awe  in  hollow-eyed  content ; 
Modest,  yet  firm  as  nature's  self;  unblamed 
Save  by  the  men  his  nobler  temper  shamed ; 
Not  honored  then  or  now  because  he  wooed 
The  popular  voice,  but  that  he  still  \vi:hstood  ; 
Broad-minded,  highersouled,  there  is  but  one 
Who  was  all  this,  and  ours,  and  all  men's — Washing- 
ton. 

Minds  strong  by  fits,  irregularly  great. 

That  flash  and  darken  like  revolving  lights, 

Catch  more  the  vulgar  eye  unschooled  to  wait 

On  the  long  curve  of  j^atient  days  and  nights. 

Rounding  a  whole  life  to  the  circle  fair 

Of  orbed  completeness  ;  and  this  balanced  soul 

So  simple  in  its  grandeur,  coldly  bare 

Of  draperies  theatric,  standing  there 

In  perfect  symmetry  of  self-control. 

Seems  not  so  great  at  first,  but  greater  grows 

Still  as  we  look,  and  by  experince  learn 

How  grand  this  quiet  is,  how  nol  lly  st'  rn 

The  discipline  that  wrought  through  life-long  throes 

This  energetic  passion  of  repose. 

A  nature  too  decorous  and  severe. 

Too  self-respeclful  in  its  griefs  and  joys 

For  ardent  girls  and  boys. 

Who  find  no  genius  ia  a  mind  so  clear 

That  its  grave  depths  seem  obvious  and  near, 

Nor  a  soul  great  that  made  so  little  noise. 

They  feel  no  force  in  ihat  calm,  cadenced  phrase, 

The  habitual  full-dress  of  his  well-bred  mind, 

That  seems  to  pace  the  minuet's  courtly  maze 

And  tell  of  ampler  leisures,  roomi-r  length  of  days. 


His  broad-built  brain,  to  self  so  little  kind 
That  no  tumultuary  blood  could  blind. 
Formed  to  control  men,  not  amaze. 
Looms  not  like  those  that  borrow  height  of  haze  : 
It  was  a  world  of  statelier  movement  then 
Than  this  we  fret  in,  he  a  denizen 
Of  that  ideal  Rome  that  made  a  man  for  men. 
Placid  completeness,  life  without  a  fall 
From  faith  or  highest  aims,  truth's  breachless  wall. 
Surely  if  any  fame  can  bear  the  touch. 
His  will  say  "  Here  !"  at  the  last  trumpet's  call, 
The  unexpressive  man  whose  life  expressed  so  muc!i. 
James  Russell  Lowell. 


SIR  JOHN  FRANKLIN, 

The  ice  was  here,  the  ice  was  there,  ' 

The  ice  was  all  around. — Coleridge. 

WHITHER  sail   you.  Sir  John  Frank- 
lin?" 
Cried  a  whaler  in  Baffin's  Ba}*. 
"  To  know  if  between  the  land  and  the 
pole 
I  may  find  a  broad  sea-way." 

"  I  charge  you  back.  Sir  John  Franklin, 
As  you  would  live  and  thrive  ; 
For  between  the  land  and  the  frozen  pole 
No  man  may  sail  alive." 

But  lightly  laughed  the  stout  Sir  John. 
And  spoke  unto  his  men  : — 
"  Half  England  is  wrong,  if  he  is  right ; 
Bear  off" to  the  westward  then." 

"O,  whither  sail  you,  brave  Englishman?  " 

Cried  the  little  Esquimaux. 
"  Between  the  land  and  the  polar  star 

My  goodly  vessels  go." 

"Come  down,  if  you  would  journey  there," 

The  li  tie  Indian  .said  ; 
"  And  diange  your  cloth  for  fur  clothing, 

Your  vessel  for  a  sled. " 

But  lightly  laughed  the  stout  Sir  John, 
And  the  crew  laughed  with  him  too  ; 
"A  sailor  to  change  from  ship  to  sled, 
I  ween,  were  something  new." 

All  through  the  long,  long  polar  day, 

The  vessels  westward  sped  ; 
And  wherever  the  sail  of  Sir  John  was  blown, 

The  ice  gave  way  and  fled — 

Gave  way  with  many  a  hollow  groan, 

And  with  many  a  surly  roar  ; 
But  it  murmured  and  threatened  on  every  side. 

And  closed  where  he  sailed  before. 

"Ho!  see  ye  not,  my  merry  men. 
The  broad  and  open  sea  ? 


S40 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


Bethink  ye  what  the  whaler  said, 

Think  of  the  Httle  Indian's  sled  !  " 

The  crew  laughed  out  in  glee. 

"Sir  John,  Sir  John,  'tis  bitter  cold, 
The  scud  drives  on  the  breeze. 
The  ice  comes  looming  from  the  north, 
The  very  sunbeams  freeze." 

"Bright  summar  goes,  dark  winter  comes — 
We  cannot  rule  the  year  ; 
But  long  ere  summer's  sun  goes  down, 
On  yonder  sea  we'll  steer." 

The  dripping  icebergs  dipped  and  rose. 

And  floundered  down  the  gale  ; 
The  ships  were  stayed,  and  yards  were  manned, 

And  furled  the  useless  sail. 

"The  summer's  gone,  the  winter's  come. 
We  sail  not  on  yonder  sea  ; 
Why  sail  we  not,  Sir  John  Franklin  ? " 
A  silent  man  was  he. 

"The  summer  goes,  the  winter  comes— 
We  cannot  rule  the  year  ; 
I  ween,  we  cannot  rule  the  ways. 
Sir  John,  wherein  we'd  steer." 

The  cruel  ice  came  floating  on, 

And  closed  beneath  the  It  e, 
Till  the  thickening  waters  dashed  no  more — 
'Twas  ice  around,  behind,  before — 

My  God  !  there  is  no  sea  ! 

"  What  think  you  of  the  whaler  now  ? 
What  of  the  Esquimaux  ! 
A  sled  were  better  than  a  ship. 
To  cruise  through  ice  and  snow." 

Down  sank  the  baleful  crimson  sun, 

The  Northern  Light  came  out, 
And  glared  upon  the  ice-bound  ships, 

And  shook  its  spears  about. 

The  snow  came  down,  storm  breeding  storm, 

And  on  the  decks  was  laid  ; 
Till  the  weary  sailor,  sick  at  heart, 

Sank  down  beside  his  spade. 

"Sir  John,  the  night  is  black  and  long. 
The  hissing  wind  is  bleak  ; 
The  hard,  green  ice  is  strong  as  death  ; 
I  prithee.  Captain,  speak!" 

"The  night  is  neither  bnght  nor  short, 
The  singing  breeze  is  cold, 
The  ice  is  not  so  strong  as  hope — 
The  heart  of  man  is  bold." 

"What  hope  can  scale  this  icy  wall. 

High  o'er  the  main  flag-staff? 
Above  the  ridges  the  wolf  and  bear 
Look  down  with  a  patient,  settled  stare. 

Look  down  on  us  and  laugh." 


The  summer  •vent,  the  winter  came — 

We  could  not  rule  the  year  : 
But  summer  will  melt  the  ice  again, 
And  open  a  path  to  the  sunny  main, 

Whereon  our  ships  shall  steer. 

The  wintt-r  went,  the  summer  went. 

The  winter  came  around  ; 
But  the  hard,  green  ice  was  atrong  as  death. 
And  the  voice  of  hope  sank  to  a  breath, 

Yet  caught  at  every  sound. 

"Hark !  heard  you  not  the  noise  of  guns? 

And  there,  and  there  again  ?  " 
"  'Tis  some  uneasy  iceberg's  roar, 

As  he  turns  in  the  frozen  main." 

"Hurrah!  hurrah!  the  Esquimaux 

Across  the  ice-fields  steal." 
"  God  give  them  grace  for  their  charity ! 

Ye  pray  for  the  silly  seal." 

"Sir  John,  where  are  the  English  fields .' 
And  where  are  the  English  trees  ? 
And  where  are  the  little  English  flowers 
That  open  in  the  breeze  ? ' ' 

"  Be  still,  be  still,  my  brave  sailors ! 
You  shall  see  the  fields  again. 
And  smell  the  scent  of  the  opening  flowers, 
The  grass  and  the  waving  grain." 

"  Oh  !  when  shall  I  see  my  orphan  child? 

My  Mary  waits  for  me." 
"  Oh !  when  shall  I  see  my  old  mother. 

And  pray  at  her  trembling  knee  ? " 

"  Be  still,  be  still,  my  brave  sailors. 
Think  not  such  thoughts  again !  " 
But  a  tear  froze  slowly  on  his  cheek  ; 
He  thought  of  Lady  Jane. 

Ah !  bitter,  bitter  grows  the  cold, 

The  ice  grows  more  and  more  ; 
More  settled  stare  the  wolf  and  bear, 

More  patient  than  before. 

"Oh!  think  you,  good  Sir  John  Franklin, 
We'll  ever  see  the  land? 
'Twas  cruel  to  send  us  here  to  starve 
Without  a  hijlping  hand. 

"  'Twas  cruel  to  send  us  here.  Sir  John, 
So  far  from  help  or  home, 
To  starve  and  freeze  on  this  lonely  sea : 
I  ween  the  Lords  of  the  Admiralty 
Had  rather  send  than  come." 

"  Oh !  whether  we  starve  to  death  alone. 
Or  sail  to  our  own  country. 
We  have  done  what  man  has  never  done — 
The  open  ocean  danced  in  the  sun — 
We  passed  the  Northern  Sea!" 

George  H.  Boker. 


PERSONS   AND   PLACES. 


341 


BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN. 

'IS  mind  a  maxim,  plain,  yet  keenly  shrewd, 
A  heart  with  large  benevolence  endued  ; 
Now  scanning  cause  with  philosophic  aim. 
And  now  arresting  the  ethereal  flame ; 
Great  as  a  statesman,  as  a  patriot  true, 
Courteous  in  manners,  yet  exalted  too  ; 
A  stern  republican — by  kings  caressed, 
Modest — by  nations  is  his  memory  blessed. 
William  B.  Tappan. 


A  TRIBUTE  TO  SAMUEL  ADAMS. 

,  ET  fame  to  the  world  sound  America's  voice  ; 
No  intrigues  caa  her  sons  from  their  govern- 
ment sever ; 
Her  pride  is  her  Adams ;    her  laws  are  his 
choice. 
And  shall  flourish  till  liberty  slumbers  forever. 
Then  unite  heart  and  hand, 
Like  Leonidas'  band. 
And  swear  to  the  God  of  the  ocean  and  land. 
That  ne'er  shall  the  sons  of  Columbia  be  slaves, 
While  the  earth  bears  a  plant,  or  the  sea  rolls  its 
waves. 

Robert  Treat  Paine. 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


llJ 


O  ye  dead  poets,  who  are  living  still 
Immortal  in  your  verse. — Longfellow. 

E  mourn  for  those  whose  laurels  fade, 
Whose  greatness  in  the  grave  is  laid ; 
Whose  memory  few  will  care  to  keep. 
Whose  names,  forgotten,  soon  shall  sleep 

We  mourn  life's  vainness,  as  we  bow 

O'er  folded  hands  and  icy  brow. 

Wan  is  the  grief  of  those  whose  faith 
Is  bounded  by  the  shores  of  death  ; 
From  out  whose  mists  of  doubt  and  gloom 
No  rainbow  arches  o'er  the  tomb 
Where  love's  last  tribute  of  a  tear 
Lies  with  dead  flowers  upon  the  bier. 

O  thou  revered,  beloved ! — not  yet. 
With  sob  of  bells,  with  eyes  tear-wet. 
With  faltering  pulses,  do  we  lay 
Thy  greatness  in  the  grave  away  ; 
Not  Auburn's  consecrated  ground 
Can  hold  the  life  that  wraps  thee  round. 

Still  shall  thy  gentle  presence  prove 
Its  minstry  of  hope  and  love ; 
Thy  tender  tones  be  heard  within 
The  story  of  Evangeline  ; 
And  by  the  fireside,  midst  the  rest, 
Thou  oft  shalt  be  a  welcome  guest. 


Again  the  mystery  will  be  clear ; 
The  august  Tuscan's  shades  appear ; 
Moved  by  thy  impulse,  we  shall  feel 
New  longings  for  thy  high  ideal ; 
And  under  all  thy  forms  of  art 
Feel  beatings  of  a  human  heart. 

As  in  our  dreams  we  follow  thee 
With  longing  eyes  beyond  the  sea. 
We  see  thee  on  some  loftier  height 
Across  whose  trembling  bridge  of  light 
Our  voices  of  the  night  are  borne, 
Clasp  with  white  hand  the  stars  of  morn. 

O  happy  poet !  Thine  is  not 

A  portion  of  the  common  lot ; 

Thy  works  shall  follow  thee ;  thy  verse 

Shall  still  thy  living  thoughts  rehearse  ;  . 

The  ages  shall  to  thee  belong — 

An  immortality  of  song. 

Francis  F.  Browne. 


THE  WELCOME  TO  LAFAYETTE  ON  HIS 
RETURN  TO  AMERICA. 

HE  multitudes  we  see  are  not  assembled  to  talk 
over  their  private  griefs,  to  indulge  in  queru- 
lous complaints,  to  mingle  their  murmurs  of 
discontent,  to  pour  forth  tales  of  real  or  imagi- 
nary wrongs,  to  give  utterance  to  political  recrimina- 
tions. The  effervescence  of  faction  seems  for  the  mo- 
ment to  be  settled,  the  collision  of  discordant  interests 
to  subside,  and  hushed  is  the  clamor  of  controversy. 
There  is  nothing  portentous  of  danger  to  the  common- 
wealth in  this  gen^  ral  awakening  of  the  high  and  the 
low,  the  rich  and  the  poor,  the  old  and  the  young — 
this  "  impulsive  ardor  "  which  pervades  the  palace  of 
wealth  and  the  hovel  of  poverty,  decrepit  age  and  lisp- 
ing fancy,  virgin  loveliness  and  vigorous  manhood.  No 
hereditary  monarch  graciously  exhibits  his  august  per- 
son to  the  gaze  of  vulgar  subjects.  No  conquering  ty- 
rant comes  in  his  triumphal  car,  decorated  with  the 
spoils  of  vanquished  nations,  and  followed  by  captive 
princes,  marching  to  the  music  of  their  chains.  No 
proud  and  Iiypocritical  hicrarch,  playing  "  fantastic  airs 
before  high  Heaven,"  enacts  his  solemn  mockeries  to 
deceive  the  souls  of  men  and  secure  for  himself  the 
honor  of  an  apotheosis.  The  shouts  which  announce 
the  approach  of  a  chieftain  are  unmingled  with  any 
note  of  sorrow.  No  lovelorn  maiden's  sigh  touches  his 
ear ;  no  groan  from  a  childless  father  speaks  reproach; 
no  widow's  curse  is  uttered,  in  bitterness  of  soul,  upon 
the  destroyer  of  her  hope  ;  no  orphan's  tear  falls  upon 
his  shield  to  tarnish  its  brightness.  The  spectacle  now 
exhibited  to  the  world  is  of  tlie  purest  and  noblest 
character — a  spectacle  which  man  may  admire  and  God 
approve — an  assembled  nation  offering  the  spontaneous 
homage  of  a  nation's  gratitude  to  a  nation's  bene- 
factor. 

Joseph  T.  Buckingham. 


342 


CROWN   JEWELS. 


WASHINGTON  ALLSTON. 

'HE  element  of  beauty  which  in  thee 

Was  a  prevailing  spirit,  pure  and  high, 
And  from  all  guile  had  made  thy  being  free, 
J  Now  seems  to  whisper  thou  canst  never  die  ! 

For  nature's  priests  we  shed  no  idle  tear  : 

Their  mantles  on  a  noble  lineage  fall : 
Though  thy  white  locks  at  length  have  pressed  the  bier 

Death  could  not  fold  thee  in  oblivion's  pall : 
Majestic  forms  thy  hand  in  grace  arrayed 

Eternal  watch  shall  keep  beside  thy  tomb, 
And  hues  aerial,  that  thy  pencil  stayed, 

Its  shades  with  heaven's  radiance  illume  : 
Art's  meek  apostle,  holy  is  thy  sway. 
From  the  heart's  records  ne'er  to  pass  away. 

Henry  Theodore  Tuckerman. 


WILLIAM  ELLERY  CHANNING. 

'HOU  livest  in  the  life  of  all  good  things  ; 

What  words  thou  spakest  for  freedom  shall 
not  die ; 

"f        Thou  sleepest  not,  fur  now  thy  love  hath  wings 
To  soar  where  hence  thy  hope  could  hardly  fly. 

Farewell,  good  man,  good  angel  now  !  this  hand 
Soon,  like  thine  own,  shall  lose  its  cunning  too  ; 

Soon  shall  this  soul,  like  thine,  bewildered  stand. 
Then  leap  to  thread  the  free  unfathomed  blue. 

When  that  day  comes,  oh,  may  this  hand  grow  cold, 
Busy,  like  thine,  for  fr'-edom  and  the  right ! 

Oh,  may  this  soul,  like  thine,  be  ever  bold 
To  face  dark  knavery's  encroaching  blight ! 

Ja^ies  Russell  Lowell. 


0' 


HONOR  TO  KANE. 

LOFT  upon  an  old  basaltic  crag. 
Which,  scalped  by  keen  winds  that  defend 

the  Pole, 

Gazes  with  dead  face  on  the  seas  that  roll 
Around  the  secret  of  the  mystic  zone, 
A  mighty  nation's  star-bespangled  flag 

Flutters  alone. 
And  underneath,  upon  the  lifeless  front 

Of  that  drear  cliff,  a  simple  name  is  traced  ; 
Fit  type  of  him  who,  famishing  and  gaunt, 
But  with  a  rocky  purpose  in  his  soul. 
Breasted  the  gathering  snows, 
Qung  to  the  drifting  floes. 
By  want  beleaguered,  and  by  winter  chased, 
Seeking  the  brother  lost  amid  that  frozen  waste. 

Not  many  months  ago  we  greeted  him. 
Crowned  with  the  icy  honors  of  the  North, 
Across  the  land  his  hard-won  fame  went  forth, 

And  Maine's  deep  woods  were  shaken  limb  by  limb. 

His  own  mild  Keystone  State,  sedate  and  prim. 


Burst  from  decorous  quiet  as  he  came. 
Hot  southern  lips,  with  eloquence  aflame, 
Sounded  his  triumph.     Texas,  wild  and  grim. 
Proffered  its  horny  hand.    The  large-lunged  West, 

From  out  his  giant  breast. 
Yelled  its  frank  welcome.    And  from  main  to  main, 
Jubilant  to  the  sky. 
Thundered  the  mighty  cry, 
Honor  to  Kane  ! 

In  vain — in  vain  beneath  his  feet  we  flung 
The  reddening  roses  !    All  in  vain  we  poured 
The  golden  wine,  and  round  the  shining  board 
Sent  the  toast  circling,  till  the  rafters  rung 
With  the  thrice-tripled  honors  of  the  feast ! 
Scarce  the  buds  wilted  and  the  voices  ceased 
Ere  the  pure  light  that  sparkled  in  his  eyes, 
Bright  as  auroral  fires  in  southern  skies. 

Faded  and  faded  !    And  the  brave  yourg  heart 
That  the  relentless  Arctic  winds  had  robbed 
Of  all  its  vital  heat,  in  that  long  quest 
For  the  lost  captain,  now  within  his  breast 

More  and  more  faintly  throbbed. 
His  was  the  victory  ;  but  as  his  grasp 
Closed  on  the  laurel  crown  with  eager  clasp. 

Death  launched  a  whistling  dart ; 
And  ere  the  thunders  of  applause  were  done 
His  bright  eyes  closed  forever  on  the  sun  1 
Too  late — too  late  the  splendid  prize  he  won 
In  the  Olympic  race  of  science  and  of  art ! 
Like  to  some  shattered  berg  that,  pale  and  lone, 
Drifts  from  the  white  North  to  a  tropic  zone. 
And  in  the  burning  day 
Wastes  peak  by  peak  away, 
Till  on  some  rosy  even 
It  dies  with  sunlight  blessing  it ;  so  he 
Tranquilly  floated  to  a  southern  sea, 
And  melted  into  heaven. 

He  needs  no  tears,  who  lived  a  noble  life  ! 
We  will  not  weep  for  him  who  died  so  well ; 
But  we  will  gather  round  the  hearth,  and  tell 
The  story  of  his  strife. 
Such  homage  suiis  him  well ; 
Better  than  funeral  pomp,  or  passing  bell. 

What  tale  of  peril  and  self-sacrifice  ! 
Poisoned  amid  the  fastnesses  of  ice. 

With  hunger  howling  o'er  the  wastes  of  snow ! 

Night  lengthening  into  months;  the  ravenous  floe 
Crunching  the  massive  ships,  as  the  white  bear 
Crunches  his  prey.     The  insufficient  share 

Of  loathsome  food  ; 
The  lethargy  of  famine  :  the  despair 

Urging  to  labor,  nervously  pursued  ; 

Toil  done  witli  skinny  arms,  and  faces  hued 
Li'K.e  pallid  masks,  while  dolefully  behnid 
Glimmered  the  fading  embers  of  a  mind. 
That  awful  hour,  when  through  the  prostrate  band 
Delirium  stalked,  laying  his  burning  hand 


PERSONS  AND   PLACES. 


343 


Upon  the  ghastly  foreheads  of  the  crew  ; 

The  whispers  of  rebellion,  f.iint  and  few 

At  first,  but  deepening  ever  till  they  grew 
Into  black  thoughts  of  murder  :  such  the  throng 
Of  horrors  bound  the  hero.     High  the  song 
Should  be  that  hymns  the  noble  part  he  played  ! 
Sinking  himself— yet  ministering  aid 

To  all  around  him.     By  a  mighty  will 

Living  defiant  of  the  wants  that  kill, 
Because  his  death  would  seal  liis  comrades'  fate  ; 

Cheering  with  ceaseless  and  inventive  skill 
Those  Polar  waters,  dark  and  desolate. 
Equal  to  every  trial,  every  fate, 

He  stands,  until  spring,  tardy  with  relief, 
Unlocks  the  icy  gate. 
And  the  pale  prisoners  tliread  the  world  once  more, 
To  the  steep  cliffs  of  Greenland's  pastoral  shore 
Bearing  their  dying  chief. 

Time  was  when  he  should  gain  his  spurs  of  gold 
From  royal  hands,  who  wooed  the  knightly  state  ; 

The  knell  of  old  formalities  is  tolled. 
And  the  world's  knights  are  now  self-consecrate. 

No  grander  episode  doth  chivalry  hold 
In  all  its  annals,  back  to  Charlemagne, 
Than  that  lone  vigil  of  unceasing  pain, 

Faithfully  kept  through  hunger  and  through  cold, 
By  the  good  Christian  knight,  Elisha  Kane. 

Fitz-Ja.mes  O'Brien. 


EXTRACT  FROM   AN  ORATION  ON  JAMES  A. 
GARFIELD. 


^ 


N  the  morning  of  Saturday,  July  2d,  tlie  Presi- 
sident  was  a  contented  and  happy  man — not 
in  an  ordinary  degree,  but  joyfully,  almost 
^  boyishly  happy.     On  his  way  to  the  railroad 

station,  to  which  he  drove  slowly,  in  conscious  enjoy- 
ment of  the  beautiful  morning,  with  an  unwonted 
sense  of  leisure  and  keen  anticipation  of  pleasure,  his 
talk  was  all  in  the  grateful  and  gratulatory  vein.  He 
felt  tliat  after  four  months  of  trial  his  administration 
was  strong  in  its  grasp  of  affairs,  strong  in  popular  fa- 
vor, and  d-stined  to  grow  stronger ;  that  grave  diffi- 
culties confronting  him  at  his  inauguration  had  been 
safely  passed  ;  that  trouble  lay  behind  him  and  not  be- 
fore him  ;  that  he  was  soon  to  meet  the  wife  whom  he 
loved,  now  recovering  from  an  illness  which  had  but 
lately  disquieted  and  at  times  almost  unnerved  him  ; 
that  he  was  going  to  his  Alma  Mater  to  renew  the 
most  cheerful  associations  of  his  young  manhood  and 
to  exchange  greetings  with  those  whose  deepening  in- 
terest had  followed  every  step  of  his  upward  progress 
from  the  day  he  entered  upon  his  college  course  until 
he  had  attained  the  loftiest  elevation  in  the  gift  of  his 
countrymen. 
Surely  if  happiness  can  ever  come  from  the  honors 


or  triumphs  of  this  world,  on  that  quiet  July  morning 
James  A.  Garfield  may  well  have  been  a  happy  man. 
No  foreboding  of  evil  haunted  him  ;  no  slightest  pre- 
monition of  danger  clouded  his  sky.  His  terrible  fate 
was  upon  him  in  an  instant.  One  moment  he  stood 
erect,  strong,  confident  in  the  years  stretching  peace- 
fully out  before  him  ;  the  next  he  lay  wounded,  bleed- 
ing, helpless,  doomed  to  weary  weeks  of  torture,  to 
silence  and  the  grave. 

Great  in  life,  he  was  surpassingly  great  in  death. 
For  no  cause,  in  the  very  frenzy  of  wantonness  and 
wickedness,  by  the  red  hand  of  murder,  he  was  thrust 
from  the  full  tide  of  this  world's  interest — from  its 
hopes,  its  aspirations,  its  victories,  into  the  visible 
presence  of  death,  and  he  did  not  quail.  Not  alone  for 
the  one  short  moment  in  which,  stunned  and  dazed, 
he  could  give  up  life  hardly  aware  of  its  relinquish- 
ment, but  through  days  of  deadly  languor,  through 
weelcs  of  agony  that  was  not  less  agony  because 
silently  borne,  with  clear  sight  and  calm  courage  he 
looked  into  his  open  grave.  What  blight  and  ruin  met 
his  anguished  eyes  whose  lips  may  tell — what  brilliant, 
broken  plans,  what  baffled,  high  ambitions,  wliat  sun- 
dering of  strong,  warm,  manhood's  friendships,  what, 
bitter  rending  of  sweet  houseliold  ties  !  Behind  him  a 
proud,  expectant  nation  ;  a  great  host  of  susraining 
friends  ;  a  cherished  and  happy  mother,  wearing  the 
full,  rich  honors  of  her  early  toil  and  tears  :  the  wife 
of  his  youth,  whose  whole  life  lay  in  his ;  the  little 
boys,  not  yet  emerged  from  childhood's  day  of  frolic  ; 
the  fair  young  daughter ;  the  sturdy  sons  just  springing 
into  closest  companionship,  claiming  every  day  aaJ 
every  day  rewarding  a  father's  love  and  care ;  and  in 
his  heart  the  eager,  rejoicing  power  to  meet  all  de- 
mands. Before  him  desolation  and  great  darkness  — 
and  his  soul  was  not  shaken.  His  countrymen  were 
thrilled  with  instant,  profound  and  universal  sympathy. 
Masterful  in  his  mortal  weakness,  he  became  the 
centre  of  a  nation's  love  enshrined  in  the  prayers  of  a 
world.  But  all  the  love  and  all  the  sympathy  could 
not  share  with  him  his  suffering.  He  trod  the  wine- 
press alone.  With  unfaltering  front  he  faced  death. 
With  unfailing  tenderness  he  t  )ok  leave  of  hfe.  Above 
the  demoniac  hiss  of  the  assassin's  bullet  he  heard  the 
voice  of  God.  With  simple  resignation  he  bowed  to 
the  divine  decree. 

As  the  end  drew  near  his  early  craving  for  tha  sea 
returned.  The  stately  mansion  of  power  had  been  to 
him  the  wearisome  hospital  of  pain,  and  he  begged  to 
be  taken  from  its  prison  walls,  from  its  oppressive, 
stifling  air,  from  its  homelessness  and  its  hopelessness. 
Gently,  silently,  the  love  of  a  great  peojjle  bore  the 
pale  sufferer  to  the  longed-for  healing  of  the  sea  to 
live  or  to  die,  as  God  should  will,  within  sight  of  its 
heaving  billows,  within  sound  of  its  manifold  voices. 
With  wan,  fevered  face  tenderly  lifted  to  the  cooling 
breeze  he  looked  out  wistfully  upon  the  ocean's  chang- 
ing wonders  ;  on  its  far  sails,  whitening  t'le  morning 
light ;  on  its  restless  waves,  rolling  shoreward  to  break 


344 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


and  die  beneath  the  noonday  sun ;  on  the  red  clouds  of 
evening,  arching  low  to  the  horizon  ;  on  the  serene 
and  shining  pathway  of  the  stars.  Let  us  think  that 
his  dying  eyes  read  a  mystic  meaning  which  only  the 
rapt  and  parting  soul  may  know.  Let  us  believe  that 
in  the  silence  of  the  receding  world  he  heard  the  great 
waves  breaking  on  a  farther  shore,  and  felt  already 
upon  his  wasted  brow  the  breath  of  the  eternal  morn- 
ing. 

James  G.  Blaine. 


QUEEN   ELIZABETH. 

'ER  singular  talents  for  government  were  found- 
ed equally  on  her  temper  and  on  her  capacity. 
Endowed  with  a  great  command  over  her- 
self, she  soon  obtained  an  uncontrolled  as- 
cendant over  her  people;  and  while  she  merited  all 
their  esteem  by  her  real  virtues,  she  also  engaged 
their  affections  by  her  pretended  ones.  Few  sov- 
ereigns of  England  succeeded  to  the  throne  in  more 
difficult  circumstances ;  and  none  ever  conducted  the 
government  with  such  uniform  success  and  felicity. 
Though  unacquainted  with  the  practice  of  toleration — 
the  true  secret  for  managing  religious  factions — she 
preserved  her  people,  by  her  superior  prudence,  from 
those  confusions  in  which  theological  controversy  had 
involved  all  the  neighboring  nations  :  and  though  her 
enemies  were  the  most  powerful  princes  of  Europe, 
the  most  active,  the  most  enterprising,  the  least 
scrupulous,  she  was  able  by  her  vigor  to  make  deep 
impressions  on  their  states  ;  her  own  greatness  mean- 
while remained  untouched  and  unimpaired. 

The  wise  ministers  and  brave  warriors  who  flour- 
ished under  her  reign,  share  the  praise  of  her  success  ; 
but  instead  of  lessening  the  applause  due  to  her,  they 
make  great  addition  to  it.  They  owed,  all  of  them, 
their  advancement  to  her  choice  ;  they  were  sup 
ported  by  her  constancy,  and  with  all  their  abilities, 
they  were  never  able  to  acquire  any  undue  ascendant 
over  her.  In  her  family,  in  her  court,  in  hei*  kingdom, 
she  remained  equally  mistress:  the  force  of  the  ten 
der  passions  was  great  over  her,  but  the  force  of  her 
mind  was  still  superior ;  and  the  combat  which  her 
victory  visibly  cost  her,  serves  only  to  display  the 
firmness  of  her  resolution,  and  the  loftiness  of  her 
ambitious  sentiments. 

The  fame  of  this  princess,  though  it  has  surmounted 
the  prejudices  both  of  faction  and  bigotry,  yet  lies 
still  exposed  to  another  prejudice,  which  is  more 
durable  because  most  natural,  and  which,  according 
to  the  different  views  in  which  we  survey  her,  is  capa- 
ble eitherof  exalting  beyond  measure  or  diminishing  the 
lustre  of  her  character.  This  prejudice  is  founded  on 
the  consideration  of  her  sex.  When  we  contemplate 
her  as  a  woman,  we  are  apt  to  be  struck  with  the 
highest  admiration  of  her  great  qualities  and  extensive 
capacity;  but  we  are  also  apt  to  require  some  more 


softness  of  disposition,  some  greater  lenity  of  temper, 
some  of  those  amiable  weaknesses  by  which  her  sex 
is  distinguished.  But  the  true  method  of  estimating 
her  merit  is  to  lay  aside  all  these  considerations,  and 
consider  her  merely  as  a  rational  being  placed  in  au- 
thority, and  intrusted  with  the  government  of  man- 
kind. We  may  find  it  difficult  to  reconcile  our  fancy 
to  her  as  a  wife  or  a  mistress;  but  her  qualities  as  a 
sovereign,  though  with  some  considerable  exceptions, 
are  the  object  of  undisputed  applause  and  approbation. 

David  Hunt. 


CCEUR    DE    LION   AT    THE    BIER    OF   HIS 
FATHER. 

The  body  of  Henry  the  Second  lay  in  state  in  the  abbey-church 
of  Fontevrault,  where  it  was  visited  by  Richard  Cceur  de  Lion, 
who,  on  beholding  it,  was  struck  with  horror  and  remorse,  and 
bitterly  reproached  himself  for  that  rebellious  conduct  which  had 
been  the  means  of  bringing  his  father  to  an  untimely  grave. 

ORCHES  were  blazing  clear. 

Hymns  pealing  deep  and  slow, 
Where  a  king  lay  stately  on  his  bier 
"f  In  the  church  of  Fontevrault. 

Banners  of  battle  o'er  him  hung. 
And  warriors  slept  beneath. 
And  light  as  noon's  broad  light  was  flung 
On  the  settled  face  of  death  : 

On  the  settled  face  of  death 

A  strong  and  ruddy  glare — 
Though  dimmed  at  times  by  the  censer's  breath, 

Yet  it  fell  still  brightest  there  ; 
As  if  each  deeply  furrowed  trace 

Of  earthly  years  to  show — 
Alas  !  that  sceptred  mortal's  race 

Had  surely  closed  in  woe  I 

The  marble  floor  was  swept 

By  many  a  long  dark  stole. 
As  the  kneeling  priests,  round  him  that  slept 

Sang  mass  for  the  parted  soul  ; 
And  solemn  were  the  strains  they  poured 

Through  the  stillness  of  the  night. 
With  the  cross  above,  and  tlie  crown  and  sword, 

And  the  silent  king  in  sight. 

There  was  heard  a  heavy  clang. 

As  of  steel-girt  men  the  tread. 
And  the  tombs  and  tlie  hollow  pavement  rang 

With  a  sounding  thrill  of  dread  ; 
And  the  holy  chant  was  hushed  awhile. 

As  by  the  torch's  flame, 
A  gleam  of  arms  up  the  sweeping  aisle 

With  a  mail-clad  leader  came. 

He  came  with  haughty  look, 
An  eagle  glance  and  clear  ; 
But  his  proud  heart  through  its  breast-plate  shook 
When  he  stood  beside  the  bier  ! 


PERSONS  AND   PLACES. 


345 


He  stood  there  still  with  a  drooping  brow, 
And  clasped  hands  o'er  it  raised  ; — 

For  his  father  lay  before  him  low, 
It  was  Caeur  de  Lion  gazed  ! 

And  silently  he  strove 

With  the  workings  of  his  breast; 
But  there's  more  in  late  repentant  love 

Than  steel  may  keep  suppressed  ! 
And  his  tears  brake  forth  at  last  like  rain — 

Men  held  their  breath  in  awe, 
For  his  face  was  seen  by  his  warrior-train, 

And  he  recked  not  that  they  saw. 

He  looked  upon  the  dead. 

And  sorrow  seemed  to  lie — 
A  weight  of  sorrow,  even  like  lead, 

Pale  on  the  fast-shut  eye. 
He  stooped — and  kissed  the  frozen  cheek. 

And  the  heavy  hand  of  clay, 
Till  bursting  words — yet  all  too  weak— 

Gave  his  soul's  passion  way. 

"  Oh,  father !  is  it  vain. 

This  late  remorse  and  deep  ? 
Speak  to  me,  father  !  once  again, 

I  weep— behold,  I  weep  ! 
Alas  !  my  guilty  pride  and  ire  ! 

Were  but  this  work  undone, 
I  would  give  England's  crown,  my  sire ! 

To  hear  thee  bless  thy  son. 

"  Speak  to  me !  mighty  grief 

Ere  now  the  dust  hath  stirred  ! 
Hear  me,  but  hear  me  ! — father,  chief. 

My  king  !  I  must  be  heard  ! 
Hushed,  hushed— how  is  it  that  I  call. 

And  that  thou  answerest  not  ? 
When  was  it  thus,  woe,  woe  for  all 

The  love  my  soul  forgot ! 

"  Thy  silver  hairs  I  see. 

So  still,  so  sadly  bright  ! 
And  father,  father  !  but  for  me. 

They  had  not  been  so  white  ! 
I  bore  thee  down,  high  heart !  at  last. 

No  longer  couldst  thou  strive  ; — 
Oh,  for  one  momtnt  of  the  past, 

To  kneel  and  say — '  Forgive  ! ' 

"Tiiou  wcrt  the  noblest  king 

On  royal  throne  ere  seen  ; 
And  thou  didst  wear  in  knightly  ring, 

Of  all,  the  stateliest  mien  ; 
And  thou  didst  prove,  where  spears  are  proved, 

In  war,  the  bravest  heart — 
Oh,  ever  the  renowned  and  loved 

Thou  wert — and  there  thou  art ! 

"Thou  that  my  boyhood's  guide 
Didst  take  fond  joy  to  be  ! — 


The  times  I've  sported  at  thy  side. 
And  climbed  thy  parent  knee  ! 

And  there  before  the  blessed  shrine, 
My  sire  !  I  see  thee  lie — 

How  will  that  sad  still  face  of  thine 
Look  on  me  till  I  die  !  " 

Felicia  Dorothea  Hemans. 


(3 


FARRAGUT. 

FTER  life's  long  watch  and  ward 
Sleep,  great  sailor,  while  the  bard 
Chants  your  daring.     When,  of  late, 
Tempest  shook  the  bark  of  State, 
Fierce  and  deadly,  throe  on  throe, 
Horrid  with  a  phosphor-glow, 
And  the  mountains  rearing  gray 
Smote  her  reeling  on  her  way — 

Day  and  night  who  stood  a  guard, 
Steadfast  aye  for  watch  and  ward  ? 
You,  great  Pilot,  who  were  made 
Quick  and  cautious,  bold  and  staid  ; 
Like  Decatur,  Perry,  Jones, 
Mastering  men  with  trumpet  tones. 
How  vou  met  your  land's  appeal 
Knows  New  Orleans,  knows  Mobile. 

Slumber,  free  from  watch  or  ward. 
Dweller  deep  in  grassy  yard 
Of  still  billows  !     Keep  your  berth 
Narrow  in  the  quiet  earth ! 
As  of  old  the  north  star  shines, 
Heaven  displays  the  ancient  signs. 
On  the  ship  drives,  sure  and  slow, 
Though  the  Captain  sleeps  below. 

Only  sleeps  upon  his  sword ; 
Slumbers  earned  by  watch  and  ward ; 
For  if  timbers  crack,  and  helm 
Fail  her,  and  a  sea  o'erwhelm. 
Then  His  Spirit  shall  inform 
Some  new  quellerof  the  storm. 
Who  shall  bring,  though  stars  are  pale, 
The  bark  in  safety  through  the  gale. 

Charles  Dk  Kay. 


ROBERT  BURNS. 

'TOP,  mortal !     Here  thy  brother  lies- 
The  poet  of  the  poor. 
His  books  were  rivers,  woods,  and  skies 
The  meadow  and  the  moor ; 
His  teachers  were  the  torn  heart's  wail. 

The  tyrant,  and  the  slave, 
The  street,  the  factory,  the  jail. 

The  palace — and  the  grave  ! 
Sin  met  thy  brother  everywhere  ! 

And  is  thy  brother  blamed  ? 
From  passion,  danger,  doubt,  and  care 
He  no  exemption  claimed. 


346 


CROV/N  JEWELS. 


The  meanest  thing,  earth's  feeblest  worm, 

He  feared  to  scorn  or  hate  ; 
But,  honoring  in  a  peasant's  form 

The  equal  of  the  great, 
He  blessed  the  steward,  whose  wealth  makes 

The  poor  man's  little  more  ; 
Yet  loathed  the  haughty  wretch  that  takes 

From  plundered  labor's  store. 
A  hand  to  do,  a  head  to  plan, 

A  heart  to  feel  and  dare — 
Tell  man's  worst  foes,  here  lies  the  man 

Who  drew  them  as  they  are. 

Ebenezer  Elliott. 


NAPOLEON. 

MORE  or  less  than  man— in  high  or  low, 
Battling  with  nations,  flying  from  the  field  : 
Now  making  monarchs'  necks  thy  footstool, 
now 

More  than  thy  meanest  soldier  taught  to  yield  : 
An  empire  thou  couldst  crush,  command,  rebuild. 
But  govern  not  thy  pettiest  passion,  nor 
However  deeply  in  men's  spirits  skilled, 
Look  through  thine  own,  nor  curb  the  lust  of  war. 
Nor  learn  that  tempted  fate  will  leave  the  loftiest  star. 

Yet  well  thy  soul  hath  brooked  the  turning  tide 
With  that  untaught  innate  philosopliy, 
Which,  be  it  wisdom,  coldness,  or  deep  pride, 
Is  gall  and  wormwood  to  an  enemy. 
When  the  whole  host  of  hatred  stood  hard  by, 
To  watch  and  mock  thee  shrinking,  thou  hast  smiled 
With  a  sedate  and  all-enduring  eye- 
When  fortune  fled  her  spoiled  and  favorite  child. 
He  stood  unbowed  beneath  the  ills  upon  him  piled. 

He  who  ascends  to  mountain-tops  shall  find 
The  loftiest  peaks  most  wrapt  in  clouds  and  snow  ; 
He  who  surpasses  or  subdues  mankind. 
Must  look  down  on  the  hate  of  those  below. 
Though  high  a'ove  the  sun  of  glory  glow. 
And  far  beneath  the  earth  and  ocean  spread. 
Round  him  are  icy  rocks,  and  loudly  blow 
Contending  tempests  on  his  naked  head. 
And  thus  reward  the  toils  which  to  those  summits  led. 

Lord  Byron. 


P 


DANTE. 

EACE  dwells  not  here — this  rugged  face 
Betrays  no  spirit  of  repose  ; 
The  sullen  warrior  sole  we  trace, 
The  marble  man  of  many  woes. 
Such  was  iiis  mien  when  first  arose 
The  thought  of  that  strange  tale  divine — 
When  hell  he  peopled  with  his  foes, 
The  scourge  of  many  a  guilty  lir.e. 

O  time !  whose  verdicts  mock  our  own. 
The  only  righteous  judge  art  thou  ; 
That  poor,  old  exile,  sad  and  lone. 
Is  Latium's  other  Virgil  now. 
Before  his  name  the  nations  bow ; 
His  words  are  parcel  of  mankind, 
Deep  in  whose  hearts,  as  on  his  brow. 
The  marks  have  sunk  of  Dante's  mind. 

Thomas  William  Parson. 


BEN  JONSON. 

'IS  learning  such,  no  author,  old  or  new, 

Escaped  his  reading  that  deserved  his  view  ; 
And  such  his  judgment,  so  exact  his  taste, 
Of  what  was  best  in  books,  or  what  books  best. 
That  had  he  joined  those  notes  his  labors  took 
From  each  most  praised  and  praise-deserving  book, 
And  could  the  world  of  that  choice  treasure  boast, 
It  need  not  care  though  all  the  rest  were  lost. 

Lucius  Gary  {Lord  Falklatd). 


JOHN  MILTON. 

HREE  poets,  in  three  distant  ages  born, 
Greece,  Italy,  and  England  did  adorn. 
The  first  in  loftiness  of  thought  surpassed  ; 
The  next  in  majesty  ;  in  both  the  last. 

The  force  of  nature  could  no  further  go  ; 

To  make  a  third,  she  joined  the  former  two. 

John  Dryden. 

TO   SHAKESPEARE. 

T  length,  Olympian  lord  of  morn. 
The  raven  veil  of  night  was  torn, 

When  througii  golden  clouds  descending. 
Thou  didst  hold  thy  radiant  flight, 

O'er  nature's  lovely  pageant  bending, 
Till  Avon  rolled,  all  sparkling,  to  thy  sight ! 

There,  on  its  bank,  beneath  the  mulberry's  shade. 
Wrapped  in  young  dreams,  a  wild-eyed  minstrel  played. 
Lighting  there  and  lingering  long. 
Thou  didst  teach  the  bard  his  song  ; 

Thy  fingers  strung  his  sleeping  shell, 
And  round  his  brows  a  garland  curled ; 

On  his  lips  thy  spirit  fell. 
And  bade  him  wake  and  warm  the  world. 

Then  Shakespeare  rose ! 
Across  the  trembling  strings 
His  daring  hand  he  flings. 
And  lo  !  a  new  creation  flows  ! 
There,  clustering  round,  submissive  to  his  will, 
Fate's  vassal  train  his  high  commands  fulfill. — 

O  thou  !  to  whose  creative  power 
We  dedicate  the  festal  hour, 
While  grace  and  goodness  round  the  altar  stand, 
Learning's   anointed   train,  and    beauty's  rose-lipped 
band — 


PERSONS  AND   PLACES. 


347 


Realms  yet  unborn,  in  accents  now  unknown, 
Thy  song  shall  learn,  and  bless  it  for  their  own. 

Deep  in  the  West  as  independence  roves, 
His  banners  planting  round  the  land  he  loves, 
Where  nature  sleeps  in  Eden's  infant  grace, 
In  time's  full  hour  shall  spring  a  glorious  race. 
Thy  name,  thy  verse,  thy  language,  shall  they  bear, 
And  deck  for  thee  the  vaulted  temple  there. 
Our  Roman-hearted  fathers  broke 
Thy  parent  empire's  galling  yoke  ; 
But  thou,  iiarmonious  master  of  the  mind. 
Around  their  sons  a  gentle  chain  shall  bind  ; 
Once  more  in  thee  shall  Albion's  sceptre  wave, 
And  what  her  monarch  lost  her  monarch-bard  shall 
save. 

Charles  Sprague. 


WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

'HAT  !  Irving  !  thrice  welcome,  warm  heart 

and  fine  brain ! 
You  bring  back  the  happiest  spirit  from 

Spain, 
And  the  gjavest  sweet  humor  that  ever  was  there 
Since  Cervantes  met  death  in  his  gentle  despair. 
Nay,  don't  be  embarrassed,  nor  look  so  beseeching. 
I  shan't  run  directly  against  my  own  preaching, 
And,  having  just  laughed  at  their  Raphaels  and  Dantes, 
Go  to  setting  you  up  beside  matchless  Cervantes  ; 
But  allow  me  to  speak  what  I  honestly  feel ; — 
To  a  true  poet-heart  add  the  fun  of  Dick  Steele, 
Throw  in  all  of  Addison  minus  the  chill, 
With  the  whole  of  that  partnership's  stock  and  good 

will. 
Mix  well,  and,  while  stirring,  hum  o'er,  as  a  spell. 
The  "  fine  old  English  gentleman  ;"' — simmer  it  well : 
Sweeten  just  to  your  own  private  liking,  then  strain. 
That  only  the  finest  and  clearest  remain  : 
Let  it  stand  out  of  doors  till  a  soul  it  receives 
From  the  warm  lazy  sun  loitering  down  through  green 

leaves ; 
And  you'll  find  a  choice  nature,  not  wholly  deserving 
A  name  either  English  or  Yankee— jubt  Irving. 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  MY  BELOVED  MASTER. 
WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE,  AND  WHAT  HE 
HATH  LEFT  US.     . 

'O  draw  no  envy,  Shakespeare,  on  thy  name, 
Am  I  thus  ample  to  thy  book  and  fame  ; 
While  I  confess  thy  writings  to  be  such 
As  neither  man  nor  Muse  can    praise  too 
much. 
'Tis  true,  and  all  men's  suffrage.    But  these  ways 
Were  not  the  paths  I  meant  unto  thy  praise  ; 
For  silliest  ignorance  on  these  would  light. 
Which,  when  it  sounds  at  best,  but  echoes  right ; 


Or  blind  affection,  which  doth  ne'er  advance 
The  truth,  but  gropes,  and  urges  all  by  chance ; 
Or  crafty  malice  might  pretend  this  praise, 
And  think  to  ruin,  where  it  seemed  to  raise. 

But  thou  art  proof  against  them,  and,  indeed, 

Above  the  ill-fortune  of  them,  or  the  need. 

I  therefore  will  begin  :  Soul  of  the  age  ! 

The  applause,  delight,  the  wonder  of  our  stage ! 

My  Shakespeare,  rise  !     I  will  not  lodge  thee  by 

Chaucer,  or  Spencer,  or  bid  Beaumont  lie 

A  little  further  off,  to  make  thee  room  : 

Thou  art  a  monument  without  a  tomb, 

And  art  alive  still,  while  thy  book  doth  live, 

And  we  have  wits  to  read,  and  praise  to  give. 

That  I  not  mix  thee  so,  my  brain  excuses, 

I  mean  with  great  but  disproportioned  Muses  : 

For  if  I  thought  my  judgement  were  of  years, 

I  should  commit  thee  surely  with  thy  peers, 

And  tell  how  far  thou  didst  our  Lyle  outshine. 

Or  sporting  Kyd  or  Marlowe's  mighty  line. 

And  though  thou  had  small  Latin  and  less  Greek, 

From  thence  to  honor  thee  I  will  not  seek 

For  names  ;  but  call  forth  thundering  Eschylus, 

Euripides,  and  Sophocles  to  us, 

Pacuvius,  Accius,  him  of  Cordova  dead, 

To  live  again,  to  hear  thy  buskin  tread. 

And  shake  a  stage :  or  when  thy  socks  were  on, 

Leave  thee  alone  for  the  comparison 

Of  all,  that  insolent  Greece  or  haughty  Rome 

Sent  forth,  or  since  did  from  their  ashes  come. 

Triumph,  my  Britain,  thou  hast  one  to  show. 

To  whom  all  scenes  of  Europe  homage  owe. 

He  was  not  of  an  age,  but  for  all  time  I 

And  all  the  Muses  still  were  in  their  prime. 

When,  like  Apollo,  he  came  forth  to  warm 

Our  ears,  or  like  a  Mercury,  to  charm  1 

Nature  herself  was  proud  of  his  designs, 

And  joyed  to  wear  the  dressing  of  his  lines! 

Which  were  so  richly  spun,  and  woven  so  fit, 

As,  since,  she  will  vouchsafe  no  other  wit. 

The  merry  Greek,  tart  Aristophanes, 

Neat  Terence,  witty  Plautus,  now  not  please  : 

But  antiquated  and  deserted  lie. 

As  they  were  not  of  nature's  family. 

Yet  must  I  not  give  nature  all  ;  thy  art. 

My  gentle  Shakespeare,  must  enjoy  a  part. 

For  though  the  poet's  matter  nature  be. 

His  art  doth  give  the  fashion  ;  and,  that  he 

Who  casts  to  write  a  living  line,  must  sweat 

(Such  as  thine  are)  and  strike  the  second  heat 

Upon  the  Muses'  anvil ;  turn  the  same. 

And  himself  with  it,  that  he  thinks  to  frame  ; 

Or  for  the  laurel,  he  may  gain  a  scorn  ; 

For  a  good  poet's  made  as  well  as  born. 

And  such  were  thou  !    Look  how  the  father's  face 

Lives  in  his  issue,  even  so  the  race 

Of  Shakespeare's  mind  and  manners  brightly  shines 

In  his  well  turned  and  true  filed  lines : 


348 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


In  each  of  which  he  seems  to  shake  a  lance, 

As  brandished  at  the  eyes  of  ignorance. 

Sweet  Swan  of  Avon  !  what  a  sight  it  were 

To  see  thee  in  our  water  yet  appear, 

And  make  those  flights  upon  the  banks  of  Thames 

That  so  did  take  Eliza  and  our  James ! 

But  stay,  I  see  thee  in  the  hemisphere 

Advanced,  and  made  a  constellation  there  ! 

Shine  forth,  thou  Star  of  Poets,  and  with  rage. 

Or  influence,  chide,  or  cheer  the  drooping  stage 

Which  since  thy  flight  from  hence  hath  mourned  like 

night. 
And  despairs  day,  but  for  thy  volume's  light ! 

Ben  Jonson. 


iIj 


EPITAPH  ON  SHAKESPEARE. 

'  HAT  needs  my  Shakespeare  for  his  honored 
bones, 

The  labor  of  an  age  in  piled  stones  ? 

Or  that  his  hallowed  relics  should  be  liid 
Under  a  starry-pointing  pyramid  ? 
Dear  son  of  memory,  great  heir  of  fame, 
What  need'st  thou  such  weak  witness  of  thy  name  ? 
Thou  in  our  wonder  and  astonishment 
Hast  built  thyself  a  live-long  monument. 
For  whilst,  to  the  shame  of  slow-endeavoring  art 
Thy  easy  numbers  flow,  and  that  each  heart 
Hath  from  the  leaves  of  thy  unvalued  book 
Those  delphic  lines  with  deep  impression  took. 
Then  thou,  our  fancy  of  itself  bereaving, 
Dost  make  us  marble  with  too  much  conceiving  ; 
And  so  sepulchred  in  such  pomp  dost  lie, 
That  kings  for  such  a  tomb  would  wish  to  die. 

John  Milton. 

MARIUS. 

Suggested  by  a -painting  by  Vanderlyn,  of  Marius  seated  among 
the  ruins  of  Carthage. 

JLLARS  are  fallen  at  thy  feet, 
Fanes  quiver  in  the  air, 
A  prostrate  city  is  thy  seat — 
And  thou  alone  art  there. 

No  change  comes  o'er  thy  noble  brow, 

Though  ruin  is  around  thee  ; 
Thine  eye-beam  burns  as  proudly  now, 

As  when  the  laurel  crowned  thee. 

It  cannot  bend  thy  lofty  soul, 

Though  friends  and  fame  depart ; 
The  car  of  fate  may  o'er  thee  roll. 

Nor  crush  thy  Roman  heart. 

And  genius  hath  electric  power. 

Which  earth  can  never  tame  ; 
Bright  suns  may  scorch,  and  dark  clouds  lower — 

Its  flash  is  still  the  same. 

The  dreams  we  loved  in  early  life 
May  melt  like  mist  away  ; 


High  thoughts  may  seem,  'mid  passion's  strife, 
Like  Carthage  in  decay. 

And  proud  hopes  in  the  human  heart 

May  be  to  ruin  hurled. 
Like  mouldering  monuments  of  art 

Heaped  on  a  sleeping  world. 

Yet  there  is  something  will  not  die, 

Where  life  hath  once  been  fair  ; 
Some  towering  thoughts  still  rear  on  high, 

Some  Roman  lingers  there  ! 

LvDiA  Maria  Child. 


SUFFERINGS  AND  DESTINY  OF  THE 
PILGRIMS. 

ETHINKS  I  see  it  now,  that  one  solitary,  ad. 
venturous  vessel,  the  Mayflower  of  a  forlorn 
hope,  freighted  with  the  prospects  of  a  future 
state,  and  bound  across  the  unknown  sea.  I 
behold  it  pursuing  with  a  thousand  misgivings,  the  un- 
certain, the  tedious  voyage.  Suns  rise  and  set,  and 
weeks  and  months  pass,  and  winter  surprises  them  on 
the  deep,  but  brings  them  not  the  sight  of  the  wished- 
for  shore.  I  see  them  now,  scantily  supplied  with  pro- 
visions, crowded  almost  to  suffocation  in  their  ill-stored 
prison,  delayed  by  calms,  pursuing  a  circuitous  route  ; 
and  now  driven  in  fury  before  the  raging  tempest,  on 
the  high  and  giddy  wave.  The  awful  voice  of  the  storm 
howls  through  the  rigging ;  the  laboring  masts  seem 
straining  from  their  base ;  the  dismal  sound  of  the 
pumps  is  heard  ;  the  ship  leaps,  as  it  were,  madly,  from 
billow  to  billow  ;  the  ocean  breaks,  and  settles  with 
ingulfing  floods  over  the  floating  deck,  and  beats  with 
deadening,  shivering  weight,  against  the  staggered  ves- 
sel. I  see  them,  escaped  from  these  perils,  pursuing 
their  all  but  desperate  undertaking,  and  landed,  at  last, 
after  a  few  months'  passage,  on  the  ice-clad  rocks  of 
Plymouth — weak  and  weary  from  the  voyage,  poorly 
armed,  scantily  provisioned,  without  shelter,  without 
means,  surrounded  by  hostile  tribes. 

Shut,  now,  the  volume  of  history,  and  tell  me,  on 
any  principle  of  human  probability,  what  shall  be  the 
fate  of  this  handful  of  adventurers  ?  Tell  me,  man  of 
military  science,  in  how  many  months  were  they  all 
swept  off  by  the  thirty  savage  tribes  enumerated  within 
the  early  limits  of  New  England  ?  Tell  me,  politician, 
how  long  did  this  shadow  of  a  colony,  on  which  your 
conventions  and  treaties  had  not  smiled,  languish  on 
the  distant  coast?  Student  of  history,  compare  for  me 
the  baffled  projects,  the  deserted  settlements,  the 
abandoned  adventures  of  other  times,  and  find  the 
parallel  of  this  1  Was  it  the  winter's  storm,  beating 
upon  the  houseless  heads  of  women  and  children  ?  was 
it  hard  labor  and  spare  meals?  was  it  disease?  was  it 
the  tomahawk  ?  was  it  the  deep  malady  of  a  blighted 
hope,  a  ruined  enterprise,  and  a  broken  heart,  aching, 
in  its  last  moments,  at  the  recollection  of  the  loved  and 


PERSONS   AND   PLACES. 


549 


left,  beyond  the  sea?— was  it  some  or  all  of  these  uni- 
ted, that  hurried  this  forsaken  company  to  their  mel- 
ancholy fate  ?  And  is  it  possible  that  neither  of  these 
causes,  that  not  all  combined,  were  able  to  blast  this 
bud  of  hope  !  Is  it  possible  that  from  a  beginning  so 
feeble,  so  frail,  so  worthy,  not  so  much  of  admiration 
as  of  pity,  there  has  gone  forth  a  progress  so  steady,  a 
growth  so  wonderful,  an  expansion  so  ample,  a  reality 
so  important,  a  promise,  yet  to  be  fulfilled,  so  glorious ! 

Edward  Everett. 


LEATHER  STOCKING. 

These  lines  refer  to  the  good  wishes  which  Elfzaheth,  in  Mr. 
Cooper's  novel  of  "  The  Pioneers,"  seems  to  have  manifested,  in 
the  last  chapter,  for  the  welfare  of  "  Leather  Stocking,"  when  he 
signified,  at  the  grave  of  the  Indian,  his  determination  to  quit  the 
settlements  of  men  for  the  unexplored  forests  of  the  West,  and 
when,  whistling  to  his  dogs,  with  his  rifle  on  his  shoulder,  and  his 
pack  on  his  back,  he  left  the  village  of  Templeton. 

^^TI^^'AR  away  from  the  hillside,   the  lake   and  the 
-"^X  hamlet, 

A  The  rock,  and  the  brook,  and  yon  meadow  so 

gay; 
From  the  footpath  that  winds  by  the  side  of  the  stream- 
let; 
From  his  hut,  and  the  grave  of  his  friend,  far  away — 
He  is  gone  where  the  footsteps  of  men  never  ventured, 
Where  the  glooms  of  the  wild-tangled  forest  are  cen- 
tred, 
WTiere  no  beam  of  the  sun  or  the  sweet  moon  has  en- 
tered, 
No  bloodhound  has  roused  up  the  deer  with  his  bay. 

Light  be  the  heart  of  the  poor  lonely  wanderer  ; 

Firm  be  his  step  through  each  wearisome  mile — 
Far  from  the  eruel  man,  far  from  the  plunderer. 

Far  from  the  track  of  the  mean  and  the  vile. 
And  when  death,  with  the  last  of  its  terrors,  assails 

him, 
And  all  but  the  last  throb  of  memory  fails  him. 
He'll  think  of  the  friend,  far  away,  that  bewails  him. 

And  light  up  the  cold  touch  of  death  with  a  smile. 

And  there  shall  the  dew  shed  its  sweetness  and  lustre; 

There  for  his  pall  shall  the  oak-leaves  be  spread — 
The  sweet  brier  shall  bloom,  and  the  wild  grape  shall 
cluster ; 

And  o'er  him  the  leaves  of  the  ivy  be  shed. 
There  shall  they  mix  with  the  fern  and  the  heather ; 
There  shall  the  young  eagle  shed  its  first  feather; 
The  wolves,  with  his  wild  dogs,  shall  lie  there  together, 

And  moan  o'er  the  spot  where  the  hunter  is  laid. 
John  G.  C.  Brainard. 

THte  FIFTIETH  BIRTHDAY  OF  AGASSIZ. 

May  28,  1857. 

'  T  was  fifty  years  ago. 

In  the  pleasant  month  of  May, 
In  the  beautiful  Pays  de  Vaud, 
A  child  in  its  cradle  lay. 


And  Nature,  the  old  nurse,  took 

The  child  upon  her  knee, 
Saying,  "  Here  is  a  story-book 

Thy  Father  has  written  for  thee." 

Con>e,  wander  with  me,"  she  said, 

"  Into  regions  yet  untrod, 
And  read  what  is  still  unread 

In  the  manuscripts  of  God." 

And  he  wandered  away  and  away 
With  Nature,  the  dear  old  nurse, 

Who  sang  to  him  night  and  day 
The  rhymes  of  the  universe. 

And  whenever  the  way  seemed  long, 

Or  his  heart  began  to  fail. 
She  would  sing  a  more  wonderful  song, 

Or  tell  a  more  marvellous  tale. 

So  she  keeps  him  still  a  child. 

And  will  not  let  him  go, 
Though  at  times  his  heart  beats  wild 

For  the  beautiful  Pays  de  Vaud  ; 

Though  at  times  he  hears  in  his  dreams 

The  Ranz  des  Vaches  of  old, 
And  the  rush  of  mountain  streams 

From  glaciers  clear  and  cold  ; 

And  the  mother  at  home  says,  "  Hark  ! 

For  his  voice  I  listen  and  yearn  . 
It  is  growing  late  and  dark. 

And  my  boy  does  not  return  ! " 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


A  PANEGYRIC  TO  OLIVER  CROMWELL. 


llJ 


HILE  with  a  strong  and  yet  a  gentle  hand, 
You  bridle  faction,  and  our  hearts  command, 
Protect  us  from  ourselves,  and  from  the  foe. 
Make  us  unite,  and  make  us  conquer  too  ; 


Let  partial  spirits  still  aloud  complain. 
Think  themselves  injured  tliat  they  cannot  reign, 
And  own  no  liberty,  but  where  they  may 
Without  control  upon  their  fellows  prey. 

Above  the  waves,  as  Neptune  showed  his  face, 
To  chide  the  winds,  atki  save  the  Trojan  race, 
So  has  your  Highness,  raised  above  the  rest, 
Storms  of  ambition  tossing  us  repressed. 

Your  drooping  countrj',  torn  with  civil  hate, 
Restored  by  you,  is  made  a  glorious  state  ; 
The  seat  of  empire,  where  the  Irish  come. 
And  the  unwilling  Scots,  to  fetch  their  doom. 

The  sea's  our  own  ;  and  now  all  nations  greet, 
With  bending  sails,  eac-h  vessel  of  our  fleet ; 
Your  power  extends  as  far  as  winds  can  blow. 
Or  swelling  sails  upon  the  globe  may  go. 


350 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


Still  as  you  rise,  the  state  exalted  too, 

Finds  no  distemper  while  'tis  changed  by  you  , 

Changed  like  the  world's  great  scene  '  when,  without 

noise, 
The  rising  sun  night's  vulgar  lights  destroys 

Had  you,  some  ages  past,  this  race  of  glory 
Run,  with  amazement  we  should  read  your  story , 
But  living  virtue,  all  achievements  past, 
Meets  envy  still  to  grapple  with  at  last. 

This  Cccsar  found  ;  and  that  ungrateful  age, 
With  losing  him,  went  back  to  blood  and  rage  ; 
Mistaken  Brutus  thought  to  break  their  yoke, 
But  cut  the  bond  of  union  with  that  stroke. 

That  sun  once  set,  a  thousand  meaner  stars 
Gave  a  dim  light  to  violence  and  wars  ; 
To  such  a  tempest  as  now  threatens  all, 
Did  not  your  mighty  arm  prevent  the  fall  ? 

If  Rome's  great  senate  could  not  wield  that  sword, 
Which  of  the  conquered  world  had  made  them  lord, 
What  hope  had  ours,  while  yet  their  power  was  new, 
To  rule  victorious  armies,  but  by  you  ? 

You,  that  had  taught  them  to  subdue  their  foes. 
Could  order  teach,  and  their  high  spirits  compose  , 
To  every  duty  could  their  minds  engage. 
Provoke  their  courage,  and  command  their  rage. 

So  when  a  lion  shakes  his  dreadful  mane, 
And  angry  grows,  if  he  that  first  took  pain 
To  tame  his  youth  approach  the  haucjhty  beast, 
He  bends  to  him,  but  frights  away  the  rest. 

As  the  vexed  world,  to  find  repose,  at  last 
Itself  into  Augustus'  arms  did  cast ; 
So  England  now  does,  with  like  toil  opprest, 
Her  weary  head  upon  your  bosom  rest. 

Then  l.-t  the  muses,  with  such  notes  as  these, 
Instruct  us  what  belongs  unto  our  peace. 
Your  battles  they  hereafter  shall  indite, 
And  draw  the  image  of  our  Mars  in  fight. 

Edmund  Waller. 


WOLSEY'S  ADVICE  TO  CROMWELL. 

eROMVVELL,  I  did  not  think  to  shed  a  tear 
In  all  my  miseries  ;  but  thou  hast  forced  me, 
Out  of  thy  honest  truth,  to  play  the  woman. 
Let's  dry  our  eyes:  and  thus  far  hear  me, 
Cromwell ; 
And — when  I  am  forgotten,  as  I  shall  be, 
And  sleep  in  dull,  cold  marble,  where  no  mention 
Of  me  more  must  be  heard  of,  say,  I  taught  thee, 
Say,  Wolsey — that  once  trod  the  ways  of  glory, 
And  sounded  all  the  depths  and  shoals  of  honor — 
Found  thee  a  way,  out  of  his  wreck,  to  rise  in  ; 
A  sure  and  safe  one,  though  thy  master  missed  it. 
Mark  but  my  fall,  and  that  that  ruined  me. 


Cromwell,  I  charge  thee,  fling  away  ambition : 
By  that  sin  fell  the  angels;  how  can  man,  then, 
The  image  of  his  Maker,  hope  to  win  by  't  ? 
Love  thyself  last :  cherish  those  hearts  that  hate  thee : 
Corruption  wins  not  more  than  honesty. 
Still  in  thy  right  hand  carry  gentle  peace, 
To  silence  envious  tongues.     Be  just,  and  fear  not  t 
Let  all  the  ends  thou  aim'st  at  be  thy  country's, 
Thy  God's,  and  truth's  ,  then  if  thou  fall'.st,  O  Crom- 
well ! 
Thou  fall'st  a  blessed  martyr. 
Serve  the  king  ;  and— pr'ythee,  lead  me  in  ; 
There  take  an  inventory  of  all  I  have, 
To  the  last  penny;  't  is  the  king's  :  my  robe. 
And  my  integrity  to  Heaven,  is  all 
I  dare  now  call  mine  own.     O  Cromwell,  Cromwell ! 
Had  I  but  served  my  God  with  half  the  zeal 
I  served  my  king.  He  would  not  in  mine  age 
Have  left  me  naked  to  mine  enemies  ! 

William  Shakespeare. 


LORD  MACAU  LAY. 

'HE  dreamy  rhj'mtr's  measured  snore 
Falls  heavy  on  our  ears  no  more  , 
And  by  long  strides  are  left  behind 
"^       The  dear  delights  of  womankind, 
Who  wage  their  battles  like  their  loves, 
In  satin  waistcoats  and  kid  gloves, 
And  have  achieved  the  crowning  work 
When  they  have  trussed  and  skewered 
Another  comes  with  stouter  tread, 
And  stalks  among  the  statlier  dead. 
He  rushes  on  and  hails  by  turns 
High-crested  Scott,  broad  breasted  Burns  , 
And  shows  the  British  youth,  who  ne'er 
Will  lag  behind,  what  Romans  were, 
When  all  the  Tuscans  and  their  Lars 
Shouted,  and  shook  the  towers  of  Mars. 

Walter  Savage  Landor 


Turk. 


Q 


JOSEPH  MAZZINI 

LIGHT  is  out  in  Italy, 

A  golden  tongue  of  purest  flame. 
We  watched  it  burning,  long  and  lone, 
And  every  watcher  knew  its  name, 
And  knew  from  whence  its  fervor  came  , 

That  one  rare  light  of  Italy, 
Which  put  self-seeking  souls  to  shame  ' 

This  light  which  burnt  for  Italy 

Through  all  the  blackness  of  her  night, 

She  doubted,  once  upon  a  time, 
Because  it  took  away  her  sight. 

She  looked  and  said,  "There  is  no  light !" 
It  was  thine  eyes,  poor  Italy  ! 

That  knew  not  dark  apart  from  bright. 


PERSONS  AND   PLACES. 


351 


This  flame  which  burnt  for  Italy, 

It  would  not  let  her  haters  sleep. 
They  blew  at  it  with  angry  breath, 

And  only  fed  its  upward  leap, 
And  only  made  it  hot  and  deep. 

Its  burning  showed  us  Italy, 
And  all  the  hopes  she  had  to  keep. 

This  light  is  out  in  Italy, 

Her  eyes  shall  seek  for  it  in  vain ! 

For  her  sweet  sake  it  spent  itself, 
Too  early  flickering  to  its  wane — 

Too  long  blown  over  by  her  pain. 
Bow  down  and  weep,  O  Italy, 

Thou  canst  not  kindle  it  again  ! 

Laura  C.  Redden  {Howard  Gfyndon). 


dangWous  enemy  by  surrendering  upper  Silesia  and 
a  parrt)f  lower  Silesia  to  him.  Frederick  was  satisfied 
for  the  time,  and  peace  was  made  between  Austria 
and  Prussia. 


MARIA  THERESA'S  APPEAL  TO  HUNGARY. 


ARIA  Theresa  was  twenty-four  years  old, 
when  she  succeeded  her  father  on  the 
thrones  of  Austria,  Hungary',  and  Bohemia. 
Notwithstanding  the  guarantee  given  her 
father  by  the  European  powers,  she  soon  found  her- 
self opposed  by  nearly  all  of  them,  who  sought  to 
wrest  her  dommions  from  her  and  divide  them  among 
themselves.  The  battle  of  Molwitz  made  the  situa- 
tion of  Maria  Theresa  almost  desperate,  and  a  little 
later  an  alliance  was  formed  against  her  by  Fr  nee, 
Prussia,  Bavaria,  Spain  and  Saxony.  A  French  army 
entered  Germany  and  united  with  the  Bavarian 
forces,  while  the  Saxon  army  advanced  into  Bohemia. 
The  Bavarians  marched  into  upper  Austria  and  occu- 
pied Linz,  where  the  elector  was  procliiimed  Arch- 
duke of  Austria.  He  might  have  taken  Vienna  had 
he  moved  promptly  against  the  city,  but  becoming 
jealous  of  the  successes  of  the  Saxons  in  Bohemia,  he 
undertook  the  conquest  of  that  country.  He  entered 
Prague  and  was  proclaimed  King  of  Bohemia.  In 
January,  1742,  he  was  chosen  emperor  by  the  electors 
at  Frankfort,  and  took  the  title  of  Charlts  VII, 

In  the  meantime  Maria  Theresa  had  exerted  her- 
self to  repair  her  disasters.     She  fled  to  her  kingdom 
of  Hungary  for  protection,  and  hastening  to  the  as- 
sembled diet,  with  her  infant  son,  afterwards  Joseph 
II.,  in  her  arms,  presented  herself  before  the  nobles 
and  deputies,  and  appealed  to  them  to  maintain  her 
cause.     The  chivalric  Hungarians  were  deeply  moved 
by  lier  trust  in  them,  and  the  hall  rang  with  th.e  cr^" :  1 
"  Let  us  die  for  our  King,  Maria  Theresa  !  "   An  army 
of  100,000  men  was  raised,  and  was  joined  by  a  strong] 
force  of  Tyrolese.     This  force  at  once  took  t'le  field. ; 
One  division  not  only  reconquered  upper  Aus'ria,  but! 
invaded  Bavaria,  and  captured  Munich  on  the  very 
day  that  Charles  VII.  was  crowned  emperor.     A  little 
later  an  Austrian  army,  under  Prince  Charles  of  Lor- 
raine, was  defeated  by  Frederick  at  Czaslau.     This 
disaster  induced  the  Queen  to  rid  herself  of  her  most 


DANIEL  BOONE. 

F  all  men,  saving  Sylla  the  man-slayer. 

Who  passes  for  in  life  and  deatli  most  lucky^ 
Of  the  great  names  which  in  our  faces  stare. 
The  General   Boone,    backwoodsman  of 
Kentucky, 
Was  happiest  amongst  mortals  anywhere  ; 

For,  killing  nothing  but  a  bear  or  buck,  he^ 
Enjoyed  the  lonely,  vigorous,  harmless  days 
Of  his  old  age  in  wilds  of  deepest  maze. 

Crime  came  not  near  him,  she  is  not  the  child 
Of  solitude  ;  health  shrank  not  from  him,  for 

Her  home  is  in  the  rarely  trodden  wild. 
Where  if  men  seek  her  not,  and  death  be  more 

Their  choice  than  life,  forgive  them,  as  beguiled 
By  habit  to  what  their  own  hearts  abhor. 

In  cities  caged.     The  presc-nt  case  in  point  I 

Cite  is,  that  Boone  lived  hunting  up  to  ninety ; 

And,  what's  still  stranger,  left  behind  a  name 
For  which  men  vainly  decimate  the  throng, 

Not  only  famous,  but  of  that  good  fame. 
Without  which  glory's  but  a  tavern  song — 

Simple,  serene,  the  antipodes  of  shame. 
Which  hate  nor  envy  could  e'er  tinge  with  wrong ; 

An  active  hermit,  even  in  age  the  child 

Of  nature,  or  the  Man  of  Ross  run  wild. 


'Tis  true  he  shrank  from  men,  even  of  his  nation ; 

When  they  built  up  unto  his  darling  trees. 
He  moved  some  hundred  miles  off,  for  a  station 

Where  there  were  fewer  houses  and  more  ease  ; 
The  inconvenience  of  civilization 

Is  that  you  neither  can  be  pleased  nor  please  ; 
But  where  he  met  the  individual  man. 
He  showed  himself  as  kind  as  mortal  can. 

Lord  Byron. 


A  WELCOME  TO  "BOZ." 

ON  HIS  FIRST  VISIT  TO  THB  WEST. 

OME  as  artist,  come  as  guest, 
Welcome  to  the  expectant  West, 
Hero  of  the  charmed  pen, 
Loved  of  children,  loved  of  men. 
We  have  felt  thy  spell  for  years ; 
Oft  with  laughter,  oft  with  tears, 
Thou  hast  touched  the  tenderest  part 
Of  our  inmost,  hidden  heart. 
We  have  fixed  our  eager  gaze 
On  thy  pages  nights  and  days, 
Wishing,  as  we  turned  them  o'er, 
Like  poor  Oliver^  for  "more," 


352 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


And  the  creatures  of  thy  brain 

In  our  memory  remain, 

Till  through  them  we  seem  to  be 

Old  acquaintances  of  thee. 

Much  we  hold  it  thee  to  greet, 

Gladly  sit  we  at  thy  feet ; 

On  thy  features  we  would  look. 

As  upon  a  living  book, 

And  thy  voice  would  grateful  hear, 

Glad  to  feel  that  Boz  were  near, 

That  his  veritable  soul 

Held  us  by  direct  control : 

Therefore,  author  loved  the  best. 

Welcome,  welcome  to  the  West. 

In  immortal  Weller's  name. 
By  the  rare  Micawber's  fame. 
By  the  floggmg  wreaked  on  Squeers, 
By  Job  Trotter's  fluent  tears, 
By  the  beadle  Bumble's  fate 
At  the  hands  of  shrewish  mate, 
By  the  famous  Pickwick  Club, 
By  the  dream  of  Gabriel  Grubb, 
In  the  name  of  Snodgrass'  muse, 
Tupman's  amorous  interviews, 
Winkle's  ludicrous  mishaps. 
And  the  fat  boy's  countless  naps  ; 
By  Ben  Allen  and  Bob  Sawyer, 
By  Miss  Sally  Brass,  the  lawyer. 
In  the  name  of  Newman  Noggs, 
River  Thames,  and  London  fogs, 
Richard  Suiveller's  excess. 
Feasting  with  the  Marchioness, 
By  Jack  Bunsby's  oracles. 
By  the  chime  of  Christmas  bells. 
By  the  cricket  on  the  hearth. 
By  the  sound  of  childish  mirth, 
By  spread  tables  and  good  cheer, 
Wayside  inns  and  pots  of  beer, 
Hostess  plump  and  jolly  host, 
Coaches  for  the  turnpike  post, 
Chambermaid  in  love  with  Boots, 
Toodles,  Traddles,  Tapley,  Toots, 
Betsey  Trotwood,  Mister  Dick, 
Susan  Nipper,  jMistress  Chick, 
Snevellicci,  Lilyvick, 
Mantalini's  predilections 
To  transfer  his  warm  affections. 
By  poor  Barnaby  and  Grip, 
Flora,  Dora,  Di,  and  Gip, 
Perrybingle,  Pinch,  and  Pip- 
Welcome,  long-expected  guest. 
Welcome  to  the  grateful  West. 

In  the  name  of  gentle  Nell, 
Child  of  light,  beloved  well — 
Weeping,  did  we  not  behold 
Roses  on  her  bosom  cold  ? 
Better  we  for  every  tear 
Shed  beside  her  snowy  bier — 


By  the  mournful  group  that  played 

Round  the  grave  where  Smike  was  laid, 

By  the  life  of  Tiny  Tim, 

And  the  lesson  taught  by  him. 

Asking  in  his  plaintive  tone 

God  to  "bless  us  every  one," 

By  the  sounding  waves  that  bore 

Little  Paul  to  heaven's  shore, 

By  thy  yearning  for  the  human 

Good  in  every  man  and  woman. 

By  each  noble  deed  and  word 

I'hat  thy  story-books  record, 

And  each  noble  sentiment 

Dickens  to  the  world  hatli  lent. 

By  the  effort  thou  hast  made 

Truth  and  true  reform  to  aid, 

By  thy  hope  of  man's  relief 

Finally  from  want  and  grief, 

By  thy  never-failing  trust 

That  the  God  of  love  is  just — 

We  would  meet  and  welcome  thee, 

Preacher  of  humanity : 

Welcome  fills  the  throbbing  breast 

Of  the  sympathetic  West. 

W.  H.  Venable. 


TO  VICTOR  HUGO. 

ICTOR  in  poesy !     Victor  in  romance  ! 
Cloud- weaver  of  phantasmal  hopes  and  fears  f 
French  of  the  French  and  lord  of  human 
tears ! 
Child-lover,  bard,  whose  fame-lit  laurels  glance, 
Darkening  the  wreaths  of  all  that  would  advance 
Beyond  our  strait  their  claim  to  be  thy  peers  ! 
Weird  Tiian,  by  thy  wintry  weight  of  years 
As  yet  unbroken  !    Stormy  voice  of  France, 
Who  does  not  love  our  England,  so  they  say  ; 
I  know  not !  England,  France,  all  men  to  be, 
Will  make  one  people,  ere  man's  race  be  run; 
And  I,  desiring  that  diviner  day. 
Yield  thee  full  thanks  for  thy  full  courtesy 
To  younger  England  in  the  boy  j  my  son, 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


MARIA  DE  MEDICIS  RECEIVING  THE 
REGENCY. 

ARIA  de  Medicis,  queen  of  France,  was  the 
daughter  of  Francis  II.,  grand  duke  of  Tus- 
cany, and  of  Joan,  archduchess  of  Austria. 
She  was  born  at  Florence  in  1573.  In  16 jo 
she  was  married  to  Henry  IV.  Her  son  who  became 
Louis  XIII,  was  born  the  following  year  ;  his  deplora- 
ble weakness  as  he  grew  up  was  the  principal  cause 
of  his  mother's  misfortunes.  The  amours  of  her  hus- 
band rendered  her  life  a  wretched  one,  and,  being  of 
a  violent  temper,  the  peace  of  the  royal  household 


PERSONS  AND   PLACES. 


353 


was  frequently  disturbed.  Her  anxieties  as  a  wife, 
and  the  absolute  temper  of  Henry,  prevented  her 
from  taking  any  part  in  state  affairs  during  his  lifetime ; 
and  when  towards  1 6io,  he  contemplated  takingthe  field 
against  the  house  of  Austria,  and  proposed  making  her 
regent  in  his  absence,  she  manifested  the  greatest  re- 
pugnance to  the  subject,  always  saying  that  it  foreboded 
some  great  misfortune.  Finally  it  was  arranged  that 
she  should  be  entrusted  with  the  regency  by  her  royal 
husband,  and  should  be  formally  crowned,  a  ceremony 
which  Henry,  on  one  pretext  or  another,  had  always 
deferred.  This  being  done,  Henry  was  stabbed  by 
Ravaillac  the  day  following,  when  preparing  for  the 
Queen's  entry  into  Paris.  Thus  fell  Henry  of  Navarre, 
a  man  of  great  qualities,  and  the  most  popular  mon- 
arch France  has  ever  known. 


THE  BURIAL  OF  MOSES. 

I Y  Nebo's  lonely  mountain. 

On  this  side  Jordan's  wave, 
In  a  vale  in  the  land  of  Moab, 
There  lies  a  lonely  grave  ; 
But  no  man  dug  that  sepulchre. 

And  no  man  saw  it  e'er. 
For  the  angels  of  God  upturned  the  sod, 
And  laid  the  dead  man  there. 

That  was  the  grandest  fijneral 

That  ever  passed  on  earth  ; 
But  no  man  heard  the  tramping, 

Or  saw  the  train  go  forth  ; 
Noiselessly  as  the  daylight 

Comes  when  the  night  is  done. 
And  the  crimson  streak  on  ocean's  cheek 

Grows  into  the  great  sun — 

Noiselessly  as  the  spring-time 

Her  crown  of  verdure  weaves. 
And  all  the  trees  on  all  the  hills 

Open  their  thousand  leaves — 
So,  without  sound  of  music, 

Or  voice  of  them  that  wept, 
Silently  down  from  the  mountain  crown 

The  great  procession  swept. 

Perchance  the  bald  old  eagle, 

On  gray  Beth-peor's  height, 
Out  of  his  rocky  eyrie. 

Looked  on  the  wondrous  sight. 
Perchance  the  lion,  stalking, 

Still  shuns  the  hallowed  spot ; 
For  beast  and  bird  have  seen  and  heard 

That  which  man  knoweth  not. 

Lo !  when  the  warrior  dieth, 

His  comrades  in  the  war, 
With  arms  reversed,  and  muffled  drum, 

Follow  the  funeral  car. 

(23) 


They  show  the  banners  taken. 

They  tell  his  battles  won, 
And  after  him  lead  his  masterless  steed, 

While  peals  the  minute  gun. 

Amid  the  noblest  of  the  land 

Men  lay  the  sage  to  rest. 
And  give  the  bard  an  honored  place. 

With  costly  marble  dressed, 
In  the  great  minster  transept, 

Where  lights  like  glories  fall, 
And  the  choir  sings,  and  the  organ  rings 

Along  the  emblazoned  wall. 

This  was  the  bravest  warrior 

That  ever  buckled  sword  ; 
This  the  most  gifted  poet 

That  ever  breathed  a  word  ; 
And  never  earth's  philosopher 

Traced,  with  his  golden  pen, 
On  the  deathless  page,  truths  half  so  sage 

As  he  wrote  down  for  men. 

And  had  he  not  high  honor? 

The  hill-side  for  his  pall ; 
To  lie  in  state  while  angels  wait, 

With  stars  for  tapers  tall ; 
And  the  dark  rock  pines,  like  tossing  plumes, 

Over  his  bier  to  wave  ; 
And  God's  own  hand,  in  that  lonely  land. 

To  lay  him  in  the  grave — 

In  that  deep  grave,  without  a  name. 

Whence  his  uncoffined  clay 
Shall  break  again — Oh  wondrous  thought  !-^ 

Before  the  judgment  day ; 
And  stand,  with  glory  wrapped  around. 

On  the  hills  he  never  trod, 
And  speak  of  the  strife  that  won  our  life, 

With  the  incarnate  Son  of  God. 

O  lonely  tomb  in  Moab's  land  ! 

O  dark  Beth-peor's  hill ! 
Speak  to  these  curious  hearts  of  ours, 

And  teach  them  to  be  still. 
God  hath  his  mysteries  of  grace — 

Ways  that  we  cannot  tell ; 
He  hides  them  deep,  like  the  secret  sleep 

Of  him  he  loved  so  well. 

Cecil  Frances  Alexander. 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  THOMAS  HOOD. 

'  AKE  back  into  thy  bosom,  earth, 
This  joyous.  May-eyed  morrow, 
The  gentlest  child  that  ever  mirth 
Gave  to  be  reared  by  sorrow  ! 
'Tis  hard — while  rays  half  green,  half  gold. 

Through  vernal  bowers  are  burning, 
And  streams  their  diamond  mirrors  hold 
To  summer's  face  returning — 


354 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


To  say  we're  thankful  that  his  sleep 

Shall  nevermore  be  lighter, 
In  whose  sweet-tongued  companionship 

Stream,  bower,  and  beam  grow  brighter  ! 

But  all  the  more  intensely  true 

His  soul  gave  out  each  feature 
Of  elemental  love — each  hue 

And  grace  of  golden  nature-^ 
The  deeper  still  beneath  it  all 

Lurked  the  keen  jags  of  anguish  ; 
The  more  the  laurels  clasped  his  brow 

Their  poison  made  it  languish. 
Seemed  it  that,  like  the  nightingale 

Of  his  own  mournful  singing, 
The  tenderer  would  his  song  prevail 

While  most  the  thorn  was  stinging. 

So  never  to  the  desert-worn 

Did  fount  bring  freshness  deeper 
Than  that  his  placid  rest,  this  morn. 

Has  brought  the  shrouded  sleeper. 
That  rest  may  lap  his  weary  head 

Where  charnels  choke  the  city, 
Or  where,  mid  woodlands,  by  his  bed 

The  wren  shall  wake  its  ditty  ; 
But  near  or  far,  while  evening's  star 

Is  dear  to  hearts  regretting. 
Around  that  spot  admiring  thought 

Shall  hover,  unforgetting. 

Bartholomew  Simmons. 


THE  LAND  OF  THE   WEST. 

brothers— come    hither     and     list    to  my 

story — 
Meriy  and  brief  will  the  narrative  be  : 
Here,  like  a  monarch,  I  reign  in  my  glory — 
Master  am  I,  boys,  of  all  that  I  see. 
Where  once  frowned  a  forest  a  garden  is  smiling — 

The  meadow  and  moorland  are  marshes  no  more  ; 
And  there  curls  the  smoke  of  my  cottage,  beguiling 
The  children  who  cluster  like  grapes  at  the  door. 
Then  enter,  boys  ;  cheerly,  boys,  enter  and  rest, 
The  land  of  the  heart  is  the  land  of  the  West. 
Oho,  boys  ! — oho,  boys  ! — oho  ! 

Talk  not  of  the  town,  boys— give  me  the  broad  prairie. 

Where  man,  like  the  wind,  roams  impulsive  and  free; 
Behold  how  its  beautiful  colors  all  vary, 

Like  those  of  the  clouds,  or  the  deep-rolling  sea. 
A  life  in  the  woods,  boyj5,  is  even  as  changing  ; 

With  proud  independence  we  season  our  cheer. 
And  those  who  the  world  are  for  happiness  ranging 

Won't  find  it  at  all,  if  they  don't  find  it  here. 
Then  enter,  boys  ;  cheerly,  boys,  enter  and  rest ; 
I'll  show  you  the  life,  boys,  we  live  in  the  West. 
Oho,  boys ! — oho,  boys  ! — oho  ! 

Here,  brothers,  secure  from  all  turmoil  and  danger. 
We  reap  what  we  sow,  for  the  soil  is  our  own ; 


We  spread  hospitality's  board  for  the  stranger, 
And  care  not  a  fig  for  the  king  on  his  throne. 

We  never  know  want,  for  we  live  by  our  labor, 
And  in  it  contentment  and  happiness  find  ; 

We  do  what  we  can  for  a  friend  or  a  neighbor, 
And  die,  boys,  in  peace  and  good  will  to  mankind. 

Then  enter,  boys  ;  cheerly,  boys,  enter  and  rest ; 

You  know  how  we  live,  boys,  and  die  in  the  West ! 
Oho,  boys  ! — oho,  boys  ! — oho ! 

George  P.  Morris. 


MONODY  ON  SAMUEL  PATCH. 

Samuel  Patch  was  a  boatman  on  the  Erie  Canal,  in  New  York. 
He  made  himself  notorious  by  leaping  from  the  masts  of  ships, 
from  the  Falls  of  Niagara,  and  from  the  Falls  in  the  Genesee 
River,  at  Rochester.  He  did  this,  as  he  said,  to  show  "that  some 
things  can  be  done  as  well  as  others;"  and  hence  this,  now,  pro- 
verbial phrase.  His  last  feat  was  when,  in  the  presence  of  many 
thousands,  he  jumped  from  above  the  highest  rock  over  which  the 
water  falls  in  the  Genesee,  and  was  lost. 

OLL  for  Sam  Patch !    Sam  Patch,  who  jumps 
no  more. 
This  or  the  world  to  come.     Sam  Patch  is 
t  dead ! 

The  vulgar  pathway  to  the  unknown  shore 
Of  dark  futurity,  he  would  not  tread. 
No  friends  stood  sorrowing  round  his  dying  bed  ; 
Nor  with  decorous  woe,  sedately  stepped 

Behind  his  corpse,  and  tears  by  retail  shed  ; — 
The  mighty  river,  as  it  onward  swept. 
In  one  great  wholesale  sob,  his  body  drowned  and 
kept. 

Toll  for  Sam  Patch  !  he  scorned  the  common  way 
That  leads  to  fame,  up  heights  of  rough  ascent. 

And  having  heard  Pope  and  Longinus  say. 

That  some  great  men  had  risen  to  falls,  he  went 
And  jumped  where  wild  Passaic's  waves  had  rent 

The  antique  rocks  ;  —the  air  free  passage  gave — 
And  graciously  the  liquid  element 

Upbore  him,  like  some  sea-god  on  its  wave  ; 

And  all  the  people  said  that  Sam  was  very  brave. 

Fame,  the  clear  spirit  that  doth  to  heaven  upraise. 

Led  Sam  to  dive  into  what  Byron  calls 
The  hell  of  waters.    For  the  sake  of  praise. 

He  wooed  the  bathos  down  great  waterfalls  ; 

The  dizzy  precipice,  which  the  eye  appalls 
Of  travelers  for  pleasure,  Samuel  found 

Pleasant,  as  are  to  women  lighted  halls 
Crammed  full  of  fools  and  fiddles  ;  to  the  sound 
Of  the  eternal  roar,  he  timed  his  desperate  bound. 

Sam  was  a  fool.     But  the  large  world  of  such 

Has  thousands — better  taught,  alike  absurd. 
And  less  sublime.     Of  fame  he  soon  got  much; 

Where  distant  cataracts  spout,  of  him  men  heard. 

Alas  for  Sam  !  Had  he  aright  preferred 
The  kindly  element  to  which  he  gave 

Himself  so  fearlessly,  we  had  not  heard 


PERSONS  AND   PLACES. 


ooo 


That  it  was  now  his  winding-sheet  and  grave, 
Nor  sung,  'twixt  tears  and  smiles,  our  requiem  for  the 
brave. 

I  say,  the  muse  shall  quite  forget  to  sound 

The  chord  whose  music  is  undying,  if 
She  do  not  strike  it  when  Sam  Patch  is  drowned. 

Leander  dived  for  love.     Leucadia's  cliff 

The  Lesbian  Sappho  leaped  from  in  a  miff, 
To  punish  Phaon  ;  Icarus  went  dead. 

Because  the  wax  did  not  continue  stiff; 
And,  hid  he  minded  what  his  father  said, 
He  had  not  given  a  name  unto  his  watery  bed. 

And  Helle's  case  was  all  an  accident, 

As  everybody  knows.     Why  sing  of  these  ? 

Nor  would  I  rank  with  Sam  that  man  who  went 
Down  into  .^Etna's  womb — Empedocles 
I  think  he  called  himself.     Themselves  to  please, 

Or  else  unwillingly,  they  made  their  springs  ; 
For  glory  in  the  abstract,  Sam  made  his, 

To  prove  to  all  men,  commons,  lords,  and  kings, 

That  "some  things  may  be  done  as  well  as  other 
things." 

But  ere  he  leaped,  he  begged  of  those  who  made 

Money  by  his  dread  venture,  that  if  he 
Should  perish,  such  collection  should  be  paid 

As  might  be  picked  up  from  the  "company  " 

To  his  mother.     This,  his  last  request,  shall  be — 
Though  she  who  bore  him  ne'er  his  fate  should  know — 

An  iris  glittering  o'er  his  memory, 
When  all  the  streams  have  worn  their  barriers  low, 
And,  by  the  sea  drunk  up,  forever  cease  to  flow. 

Therefore  it  is  considered,  that  Sam  Patch 
Shall  never  be  forgot  in  prose  or  rhyme  ; 

His  name  shall  be  a  portion  in  the  batch 
Of  the  heroic  dough,  which  baking  time 
Kneads  for  consuming  ages — and  the  chime 

Of  fame's  old  bells,  long  as  they  truly  ring. 
Shall  tell  of  him  :  he  dived  for  the  sublime, 

And  found  it.    Thou,  who  with  the  eagle's  wing, 

Being  a  goose — wouldst  fly — dream  not  of  such  a  thing  ! 

Robert  C.  Sands. 


THE  ORIENT. 

)NOW  ye  the  land  where  the  cypress  and  myrtle 
Are  emblems  of  deeds  that  are  done  in 
their  clime  ; 
Where  the  rage  of  the  vulture,  the  love  of 
the  turtle, 
Now  melt  into  sorrow,  now  madden  to  crime? 
Know  ye  the  land  of  the  cedar  and  vine. 
Where  the  flowers  ever  blossom,  the  beams  ever 

shine ; 
Where  the  light  wings  of  zephyr,  oppressed  with  per- 
fume, 
Wax  faint  o'er  the  gardens  of  Giil  in  her  bloom  ? 


Where  the  citron  and  olive  are  fairest  of  fruit, 
And  the  voice  of  the  nightingale  never  is  mute  ; 
Where  the  tints  of  the  earth,  and  the  hues  of  the  sky. 
In  color  though  varied,  in  beauty  may  vie. 
And  the  purple  of  ocean  is  deepest  in  die ; 
Where  the  virgins  are  soft  as  the  roses  they  twine, 
And  all,  save  the  spirit  of  man,  is  divine? 
'T  is  the  clime  of  the  East;  't  is  the  land  of  the  Sun — 
Can  he  smile  on  such  deeds  as  his  children  have  done  ? 
O,  wild  as  the  accents  of  lover's  farewell 
Are  the  hearts  which  they  bear  and  the  tales  which 
they  tell ! 

Lord  Bvrox. 


LIBERTY  TO    ATHENS. 

'HE  flag  of  freedom  floats  once  more 
Around  the  lofty  Parthenon ; 
It  waves,  as  waved  the  palm  of  yore 
*f*  In  days  departed  long  and  gone  ; 

As  bright  a  glory,  from  the  skies. 

Pours  down  its  light  around  those  towers. 
And  once  again  the  Greeks  arise, 

As  in  their  country's  noblest  hours; 
Their  swords  are  girt  in  virtue's  cause, 

Miner\'a's  sacred  hill  is  free — 
Oh,  may  she  keep  her  equal  laws. 

While  man  shall  live,  and  time  shall  be. 

The  pride  of  all  her  shrines  went  down  ; 
The  Goth,  the  Frank,  the  Turk,  had  reft 

The  laurel  from  her  civic  crown ; 

Her  helm  by  many  a  sword  was  cleft : 

She  lay  among  her  ruins  low- 
Where  grew  the  palm,  the  cypress  rose, 

And,  crushed  and  bruised  by  many  a  blow. 
She  cowered  beneath  her  savage  foes  : 

But  now  again  she  springs  from  earth, 
Her  loud,  awakening  trumpet  speaks ; 

She  rises  in  a  brighter  birth, 
And  sounds  redemption  to  the  Greeks. 

James  Gates  Percival. 


JERUSALEM  BEFORE  THE  SIEGE  OF  TITUS. 

ITUS.— It  must  be— 
And  yet  it  moves  me,  Romans  !     It  confound- 
The  counsel  of  my  firm  philosophy, 
That  ruin's  merciless  ploughshare  must  pasf 
o'er. 
And  barren  salt  be  sown  on  yon  proud  city. 
As  on  our  olive-crowned  hill  we  stand. 
Where  Kedron  at  our  feet  its  scanty  waters  , 

Distils  from  stone  to  stone  with  gentle  motion, 
As  through  a  valley  sacred  to  sweet  peace. 
How  boldly  doth  it  front  us  !  how  majestically ! 
Like  a  luxurious  vineyard,  the  hill-side 
Is  hung  with  marble  fabrics,  line  o'er  line, 


356 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


Terrace  o'er  terrace,  nearer  still,  and  nearer 

To  tlie  blue  heavens.     There  bright  and  .sumptuous 

palaces, 
With  cool  and  verdant  gardens  interspersed  ; 
There  towers  of  war  that  frown  in  massy  strength  ; 
While  over  all  hangs  the  rich  purple  eve, 
As  conscious  of  its  being  her  last  farewell 
Of  light  and  glory  to  that  fated  city. 
And,  as  our  clouds  of  battle,  dust  and  smoke, 
Are  melted  into  air,  behold  the  temple 
In  undisturbed  and  lone  serenity, 
Finding  itself  a  solemn  sanctuary 
In  the  profound  of  heaven  !    It  stands  before  us 
A  mount  of  snow,  fretted  with  golden  pinnacles ! 
The  very  sun,  as  though  he  worshipped  there, 
Lingers  upon  the  gilded  cedar  roofs. 
And  down  the  long  and  branching  porticoes, 
On  every  flower>--sculptured  capital, 
Glitters  the  homage  of  his  parting  beams. 
By  Hercules  !  the  sight  might  almost  win 
The  offended  majesty  of  Rome  to  mercy. 

Henry  Hart  Milman. 


K 


SUNNY  ITALY. 

)NOWEST  thou  the  land  which  lovers  ought  to 
choose  ? 
Like  blessings  there  descend  the  sparkling 
dews ; 
In  gleaming  streams  the  crystal  rivers  run. 
The  purple  vintage  clusters  in  the  sun  ; 
Odors  of  flowers  haunt  the  balmy  breeze. 
Rich  fruits  hang  high  upon  the  verdant  trees  ; 
And  vivid  blossoms  gem  the  shady  groves, 
Where  bright-plumed  birds  discourse  their  careless 

loves. 
Beloved  ! — speed  we  from  this  sullen  strand. 
Until  thy  light  feet  press  that  green  shore's  yellow  sand. 

Look  seaward  thence,  and  naught  shall  meet  thine  eye 

But  fairy  isles,  like  paintings  on  the  sky  ; 

And,  flying  fast  and  free  before  the  gale, 

The  gaudy  vessel  with  its  glancing  sail ; 

And  waters  glittering  in  tlie  glare  of  noon, 

Or  touched  with  silver  by  the  stars  and  moon, 

Or  flecked  with  broken  lines  of  crimson  light, 

When  the  far  fisher's  fire  aflJronts  the  night. 

Lovely  as  loved  !  toward  that  smiling  shore 

Bear  we  our  household  gods,  to  fix  forever  more. 

It  looks  a  dimple  on  the  face  of  earth, 

The  seal  of  beauty,  and  the  shrine  of  mirth  : 

Nature  is  delicate  and  graceful  there, 

The  place's  genius,  feminine  and  fair ; 

The  winds  are  awed,  nor  dare  to  breathe  aloud  ; 

The  air  seems  never  to  have  borne  a  cloud. 

Save  where  volcanoes  send  to  heaven  their  curled 

And  solemn  smokes,  like  altars  of  the  world. 

Thrice  beautiful ! — to  that  delightful  spot 

Carry  our  married  hearts,  and  be  all  pain  forgot 


There  art,  too,  shows,  when  nature's  beauty  palls. 
Her  sculptured  marbles,  and  her  pictured  walls  ; 
And  there  are  forms  in  which  they  both  conspire 
To  whisper  themes  that  know  not  how  to  tire  ; 
The  speaking  ruins  in  that  gentle  clime 
Have  but  been  hallowed  by  the  hand  of  time. 
And  each  can  mutely  prompt  some  thought  of  flame 
The  meanest  stone  is  not  without  a  name. 
Then  come,  beloved  ! — hasten  o'er  the  sea, 
To  build  our  happy  hearth  in  blooming  Italy. 

Edward  C.  Pinknev. 


THE  MOUNTAINS  OF  SWITZERLAND. 

'HE  stranger  wandering  in  the  Switzer's  land, 
Before  its  awful  mountain -tops  afraid — 
Who  yet,  with  patient  toil,  has  gained  his  stand 
"^  On  the  bare  summit  where  all  life  is  stayed — 

Sees  far,  far  down  beneath  his  blood-dimmed  eyes, 
Another  country,  golden  to  the  shore. 

Where  a  new  passion  and  new  hopes  arise. 
Where  southern  blooms  unfold  forevermore. 

And  I,  lone  sitting  by  the  twilight  blaze. 
Think  of  another  wanderer  in  the  snows. 

And  on  more  perilous  mountain-tops  I  gaze 
Than  ever  frowned  above  the  vine  and  rose. 

Yet  courage,  soul !  nor  hold  thy  strength  in  vain. 
In  hope  o'ercome  the  steeps  God  set  for  thee. 

For  past  the  Alpine  summits  of  great  pain 
Lieth  thine  Italy. 

Rose  Terry  Cooke. 


PALESTINE. 

LEST  land  of  Judea  !  thrice  hallowed  of  song, 
Where  the  holiest  of  memories  pilgrim-like 

throng ; 

In  the  shade  of  thy  palms,  by  the  shores  of  thy 
sea. 
On  the  hills  of  thy  beauty,  my  heart  is  with  thee. 

With  the  eye  of  a  spirit  I  look  on  that  shore. 
Where  pilgrim  and  prophet  have  lingered  before ; 
With  the  glide  of  a  spirit  I  traverse  the  sod 
Made  bright  by  the  steps  of  the  angels  of  God. 

Lo,  Bethlehem's  hill  side  before  me  is  seen. 
With  the  mountains  around  and  the  valleys  between ; 
There  rested  the  shepherds  of  Judah,  and  there 
The  song  of  the  angels  rose  sweet  on  the  air. 

Oh,  here  with  His  flock  the  sad  wanderer  came — 
These  hills  He  toiled  over  in  grief,  are  the  same — 
The  founts  where  He  drank  by  the  wayside  still  flow, 
And  the  same  airs  are  blowing  which  breathed  on  His 
brow  I 

And  what  if  my  feet  may  not  tread  where  He  stood. 
Nor  my  ears  hear  the  dashing  of  Galilee's  flood. 


PERSONS  AND   PLACES. 


357 


Nor  my  eyes  see  the  cross  which  He  bowed  him  to 

bear, 
Nor  my  knees  press  Gethsemane's  garden  of  prayer. 

Yet,  Loved  of  the  Father,  Thy  Spirit  is  near 
To  the  meek,  and  the  lowly,  and  penitent  here  ; 
And  the  voice  of  Thy  love  is  the  same  even  now, 
As  at  Bethany's  tomb,  or  on  Olivet's  brow. 

Oh,  the  outward  hath  gone  ? — but,  in  glory  and  power' 
The  Spirit  surviveth  the  things  of  an  hour  ; 
Unchanged,  undecaying,  its  Pentecost  flame 
On  the  heart's  secret  altar  is  burning  the  same  ! 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


GREECE. 

,  AND  of  the  brave  !  where  lie  inurned 
The  shrouded  forms  of  mortal  clay, 
In  whom  the  fire  of  valor  burned, 
And  blazed  upon  the  battle's  fray: 
Land  where  the  gallant  Spartan  few 

Bled  the  Thermopylae  of  yore. 
When  death  his  purple  garment  threw 
On  Helle's  consecrated  shore  ! 

Land  of  the  Muse  !  within  thy  bowers 

Her  soul-entrancing  echoes  rung. 
While  on  their  course  the  rapid  hours 

Paused  at  the  melody  she  sung — 
Till  every  grove  and  every  hill. 

And  every  stream  that  flowed  along, 
From  morn  to  night  repeated  still 

The  winning  harmony  of  song. 

Land  of  dead  heroes,  living  slaves  ! 

Shall  glory  gild  thy  clime  no  more  ? 
Her  banner  float  above  the  waves 

Where  proudly  it  hath  swept  before.? 
Hath  not  remembrance  then  a  charm 

To  break  the  fetters  and  the  chain. 
To  bid  thy  children  nerve  the  arm, 

And  strike  for  freedom  once  again  ? 

No  !  coward  souls,  the  light  which  shone 

On  Leuctra's  war-empurpled  day. 
The  light  which  beamed  on  Marathon 

Hath  lost  its  splendor,  ceased  to  play  ; 
And  thou  art  but  a  shadow  now, 

With  helmet  shattered — spear  in  rust — 
Thy  honor  but  a  dream — and  thou 

Despised — degraded  in  the  dust ! 

Where  sleeps  the  spirit  that  of  old 

Dashed  down  to  earth  the  Persian  plume. 
When  the  loud  chant  of  triumph  told 

How  fatal  was  the  despot's  doom? — 
The  bold  three  hundred — where  are  they, 

Who  died  on  battle's  gory  breast? 
Tyrants  have  trampled  on  the  clay 

Where  death  hath  hushed  them  into  rest. 


Yet,  Ida,  yet  upon  thy  hill 

A  glory  shines  of  ages  fled  ; 
And  fame  her  light  is  pouring  still. 

Not  on  the  living,  but  the  dead  ! 
But  'tis  the  dim,  sepulchral  light. 

Which  sheds  a  famt  and  feeble  ray. 
As  moonbeams  on  the  brow  of  night, 

When  tempests  sweep  upon  their  way. 

Greece  !  yet  awake  thee  from  thy  trance. 

Behold,  thy  banner  waves  afar; 
Behold,  the  glittering  weapons  glance 

Along  the  gleaming  front  of  war ! 
A  gallant  chief,  of  high  emprize, 

Is  urging  foremost  in  the  field, 
Who  calls  upon  thee  to  arise 

In  might — in  majesty  revealed. 

In  vain,  in  vain  the  hero  calls — 

In  vain  he  sounds  the  trumpet  loud  ! 
His  banner  totters — see  !  it  falls 

In  ruin,  freedom's  battle-shroud  : 
Thy  children  have  no  soul  to  dare 

Such  deeds  as  glorified  their  sires  ; 
Their  valor's  but  a  meteor's  glare, 

Which  gleams  a  moment,  and  expires. 

Lost  land  !  where  genius  made  his  reign, 

And  reared  his  golden  arch  on  high  ; 
Where  science  raised  her  sacred  fane, 

Its  summits  peering  to  the  sky ; 
Upon  thy  clime  the  midnight  deep 

Of  ignorance  hath  brooded  long. 
And  in  the  tomb,  forgotten,  sleep 

The  sons  of  science  and  of  song. 

Thy  sun  hath  set — the  evening  storm 

Hath  passed  in  giant  fury  by, 
To  blast  the  beauty  of  thy  form. 

And  spread  its  pall  upon  the  sky  ! 
Gone  is  thy  glory's  diadem. 

And  freedom  never  more  shall  cease 
To  pour  her  mournful  requiem 

O'er  blighted,  lost,  degraded  Greece  ! 

James  G.  Brooks. 

NAPLES. 

'HIS  region,  surely,  is  not  the  earth. 

Was  it  nut  dropt  from  heaven  ?    Not  a  grove, 
Citron  or  pine  or  cedar,  not  a  grot 
Sea- worn  and  mantled  with  the  gadding  vine. 
But  breathes  enchantment.     Not  a  cliflf  but  flings 
On  the  clear  wave  some  image  of  delight. 
Some  cabin-roof  glowing  with  crimson  flowers. 
Some  ruined  temple  or  fallen  monument, 
To  muse  on  as  the  bark  is  gliding  by, 
And  be  it  mine  to  muse  there,  mine  to  glide. 
From  daybreak,  when  the  mountain  pales  his  fire   • 
Yet  more  and  more,  and  from  the  mountain-top, 


358 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


Ti.l  then  invisible,  a  smoke  ascends, 
Solemn  and  slow,  as  erst  from  Ararat, 
When  he,  the  patriarch,  who  escaped  the  flood. 
Was  with  his  household  sacrificing  there — 
From  daybreak  to  that  hour,  the  last  and  best, 
When,  one  by  one,  the  fishing-boats  come  forth. 
Each  with  its  glimmering  lantern  at  the  prow. 
And,  when  the  nets  are  tlirown,  the  evening  hymn 
Steals  o'er  the  trembling  waters. 

Samuel  Rogers. 

MELROSE  ABBEY. 

*HE  moon  on  the  east  oriel  shone. 

Through  slender  shafts  of  shapely  stone, 
By  foliaged  tracery  combined  ; 
"f*        Thou  wouldst  have  thought  some  fairy's  hand 
'Twi.xt  poplars  straight  the  ozier  wand. 

In  many  a  freakish  knot,  had  twined  ; 
Then  framed  a  spell,  when  the  work  was  done, 
And  changed  the  willow  wreaths  to  stone. 
The  silver  light,  so  pale  and  faint, 
Showed  many  a  prophet  and  many  a  saint ; 

Whose  image  on  the  glass  was  dyed  ; 
Full  in  the  midst,  his  cross  of  red 
Triumphant  Michael  brandished, 

And  trampled  the  apostate's  pride. 
The  moonbeam  kissed  the  holy  vane. 
And  threw  on  the  pavement  a  bloody  stain. 
Sir  Walter  Scott. 


FESTIVAL  IN  A  RUSSIAN  VILLAGE. 


0 


TRAVELER  gives  the  following  interesting 
description  of  a  fete  he  witnessed  in  Russia. 
The  day  before  the  fete  an  old  Jew  pedlar 
appeared  in  the  village  street  selling  very 
gaudy  handkerchiefs,  for  which  he  found  several  pur- 
chasers. Little  children  were  there  too  with  their 
kopecks,  or  pennies,  running  along  barefooted,  or  in 
lapti,  their  large  shoes  which  many  of  them  had 
made  for  themselves  out  of  birch-bark,  to  buy  a  pic- 
ture-book or  some  toy  that  the  pedlar  had  for  sale. 
An  eager  purchaser  had  bought  some  beads  for  the 
approaching  fete,  and  was  looking  for  something  else 
to  match.  Another,  a  girl,  had  purchased  an  orna- 
ment for  her  forehead  for  to-morrow,  and  putting  it 
on  at  once  climbed  on  to  a  wall  to  see  what  other 
treasures  the  pedlar  would  disclose.  One  little 
would-be  purchaser,  who-  had  no  money  wherewith 
to  buy  anything,  resignedly  looked  on,  just  wishing 
that  some  day  he  too  might  have  the  good  fortune  to 
be  a  pedlar,  to  make  all  that  money  and  have  all 
those  beautiful  things  besides. 

There  was  plenty  of  dancing  on  that  fete-day,  and 
the  company  enjoyed  themselves  immensely.  The 
tambourine  is  the  usual  musical  accompaniment  to  a 
village  dance,  also  the  balalaika  (a  guitar  of  three 
strings),  and  "sepovka"  and  "sopel,"  pipesor  flutes, 
were  also  used  a  good  deal  to-day.     There  is  always 


much  music  at  a  Russian  festivity.  Then  swings  were 
put  up  for  the  younger  folk,  and  the  Russian  swing  is 
diflferent  from  ours :  each  swing  hung  by  two  ropes 
from  a  pole,  which  crossed  a  board  transversely  when 
the  swingers  either  stood  or  sat  between  the  two 
ropes  opposite  to,  and  swinging,  one  another.  Dogs 
had  come  to  the  fete  too,  and  some  such  hungry- 
looking  ones  that  they  were  invited  indoors  before 
they  went  away  again,  to  a  good  repast.  There  was 
a  pretty  view  of  the  nearest  church  from  the  lawn. 

In  the  evening  to  prolong  the  fete,  a  good  many  of 
the  same  people  assembled  outside  the  largest  izbd 
in  the  village,  belonging  also  to  one  of  her  oldest  in- 
habitants. He  himself,  dear  old  man,  was  a  wonder- 
ful dancer,  and  his  son  sang  very  pretty  songs  to  the 
Russian  lute.  He  danced  the  Tressaka  very  well  in- 
deed, to  the  admiration  of  all  the  bystanders,  and  in 
it  he  had  to  balance  himself  on  each  leg  in  turn.  His 
son  also  performed  another  Russian  dance  still  more 
cleverly,  in  which  he  had  to  stoop  down  to  the  ground 
as  he  changed  the  position  of  his  legs.  As  they 
danced,  the  bystanders  sang  a  song  with  a  refrain. 
The  old  man's  very  heart  and  soul  seemed  to  be  in 
his  dance,  and  everybody  passed  a  very  pleasant 
evening. 

THEBES. 

aND  Thebes,  how  fallen  now  !  Her  storied  gates 
Resistless  all !    Where  sweeps  the  Nile's 
swift  wave. 
Relentless  sands  embattling,  she  awaits 
Her  final  sepulture  and  gathering  grave  : — 
For  Lybia  there  her  wide  dominion  brings. 
More  powerful  than  Severus  to  entomb. 
And  vaster  than  the  sculptured  place  of  kings, 
That  pierces  far  the  mountain's  inmost  womb. 
Her  moral  breathes  from  out  a  sterner  wilder  gloom. 

The  city  rose  where  wandering  paths  were  traced — 
Robed  by  the  graces,  she  came  forth  a  queen  ; — 

Man  in  his  virtue  took  her  from  the  waste, 
Man  in  his  wrath  turned  her  to  waste  again  ; 

He  conquered  whilst  his  passions  were  aflame. 
But  he  became  relentless  'mid  the  glare 

Of  his  wild  conquests,  and  his  conquerors  came  ; 
All  that  he  worshipped  perished — all  that  were 
Of  his,  swept  through  the  rapid  tideway  of  despair. 

Methinks  I  see  her  serried  legions  march. 
And  hear  the  cadent  tramp  of  many  feet ; 

Proud  banners  wave  upon  the  sculptured  arch  ; 
The  drum's  stern  tempest  and  its  stirring  beat 

Invoke  to  ardor  where  the  fearless  meet. 
The  fierce  steed  prances  to  the  trumpet's  note 

With  flushing  nostrils  and  disdainful  feet, 
And  tossing  mane  and  battle-breathing  throat. 
To  make  the  poet's  theme,  and  history's  pen  pro- 
voke. 


PERSONS  AND   PLACES. 


359 


And  here,  where  niin  peers,  the  lover  wooed 
And  won  his  bride — brave  men  and  beauteous  maids 

Trod  proudly  through  the  vestibules — here  stood 
In  stem  command,  within  the  pillared  shades, 

Imperious  monarchs,  whose  ensanguined  blades 
Defied  the  gods — and  here  remorseless  war. 

Sedition's  rage,  inexpiable  deeds. 
And  conquering  crime,  made  her  the  servitor 
Of  baseness — she  became  the  handmaid  of  the  boor. 

And  now  she  is  a  lone,  deserted  one — 

The  tears  of  Niobe  are  hers,  for  she 
Has  lost  her  children— fate  they  could  not  shun, 

Or  from  the  shafts  of  stem  Latona  flee. 
Wrapt  in  her  griefs,  she  owns  the  dark  decree, 

And  bows  where  Amphion  left  his  bloody  stains  ; 
Requiting  gods  from  thraldom  do  not  free,' 

No  tides  of  life  swell  through  her  pulseless  veins, 

Where  she  was  turned  to  stone  in  gloom  she  still  re- 
mains. 

She  was  a  city  of  a  thousand  years 

Ere  Homer  harped  his  wars,  yet  on  her  plain, 

Crumbling,  the  riven  monument  appears, 
To  mourn  that  glory  ne'er  returns  again : 

Her  front  of  graven  epics  vainly  tells 

How  long  she  conquered — lonely  musings  bound 

The  storied  place — where  deep  ranks  gathered,  swells. 
Of  fallen  architraves,  the  saddening  mound, 
And  many  a  worshipped  pile  bestrews  the  silent 
ground. 

She  dreams  no  dream  of  greatness  now.^doth  mourn 
No  dim  remembered  past — dominion,  hope. 

And  conquest's  ardor  long  have  ceased  to  burn 
Where  ruthless  Cambyses  her  warriors  smote  ; 

Her  horsemen,  columns,  gates,  together  lie, 
And  moulder  into  elemental  clay  ; 

Yet  who  shall  tread  her  grave  without  a  sigh, 
Nor  wish  to  breathe  her  being  into  day — 
Upon  her  fields  revive  g^eat  Carnac's  bold  array  ! 

Why  hath  she  fallen  ?    Men  die  but  to  yield 

To  others  all  their  legacies  of  thought ; 
Sires  give  to  sons  the  palace  and  the  field, 

The  muniments  by  ripened  vigor  wrought ! 
Ages  in  all  their  bright  success  have  taught 
To  brave  the  whelming  torrent  of  events  ; 
And  fading  centuries  gather  not  for  nought ; — 

Yet  where  the  architraves  and  pediments 

Appear  and  linger  still,  I  mark  but  wasting  rents. 

Why  hath  she  fallen  ?    Who  the  tale  shall  tell  ? 

When  Satum's  golden  age  was  wrapt  in  story, 
Ere  time  revenged  and  ruin  wove  her  spell, 

Existence  was  computed  by  her  glory  ! 
Why,  when  her  towers  with  crowning  years  were  hoary. 

And  peerless  forms  and  queenly  graces  shone. 
Should  she  be  doomed  to  night  and  cerement  gory. 

And  dim  remembrance  linger  at  her  tomb — 

A  voiceless  phantom  'mid  the  cold  and  pulseless 
gloom? 


Not  that  her  legions  through  her  hundred  gates     • 
Went  out  to  conquer — not  that  virtue  rose 

To  guard  her  from  the  shafts  of  venomed  fates, 
And  save  her  from  the  wrath  of  leaguered  foes. 

Her  stormy  memories  light  her  dull  repose. 
And  warning  voices  linger  through  her  shades ; 

Her  vices  were  the  parents  of  her  woes — 
The  gods  injustice  turned  her  sweeping  blades 
To  her  own  bosom,  ending  thus  her  masquerades. 

Forever  and  forever  flows  the  river. 

Forever  and  forever  looms  the  plain  ; 
Forever  shall  the  pale  stars  o'er  them  quiver. 

But  never  shall  her  past  return  again  ! 
Hyperion  dawns  but  light  her  frieze  in  vain. 

And  moons  peer  sadly  through  her  columned  way 
The  mid-day  glares  on  what  doth  yet  remain 

Of  faded  glory,  with  a  mocking  play — 

Thus  passeth  into  shadow  man's  imperious  sway  ! 

What  recks  it  that  Sesostris  dared  to  thrall 
His  fellow  kings,  and  haughty  Cheops  raised 

The  everlasting  pyramid  !  the  pall 
Of  night  now  hang^  where  distant  glories  blazed  ! 

How  shall  fame  last  when  all  her  monuments 
Are  in  the  dust? — the  same  blue  bending  sky 

Serenely  smiles  through  time's  despairing  rents. 
And  lengthened  colonnades  the  storm  defj- — 
But  there's  no  sceptre  now,  or  kingly  footfall  nigh. 
William  Whitehead. 


THE    ISLES  OF  GREECE. 

'  HE  isles  of  Greece,  the  isles  of  Greece ! 

Where  burning  Sappho  loved  and  sung. 
Where  grew  the  arts  of  war  and  peace — 
Where  Delos  rose,  and  Phoebus  sprung  ! 
Eternal  summer  gilds  them  yet, 
But  all,  except  their  sun,  is  set. 

The  Scian  and  the  Teian  muse. 
The  hero's  harp,  the  lover's  lute. 

Have  found  the  fame  your  shores  refuse  ; 
Their  place  of  birth  alone  is  mute 

To  sounds  which  echo  further  west 

Than  your  sires'  "  Islands  of  the  Blest." 

The  mountains  look  on  Marathon — 
And  Marathon  looks  on  the  sea  ; 

And  musing  there  an  hour  alone, 

I  dreamed  that  Greece  might  still  be  freev 

For  standing  on  the  Persian's  grave, 

I  could  not  deem  myself  a  slave. 

A  king  sat  on  the  rocky  brow 
Which  looks  o'er  sea-born  Salamis  ; 

And  ships,  by  thousands,  lay  below, 
And  men  in  nations  ; — all  were  his  ! 

He  counted  them  at  break  of  day — 

And  when  the  sun  set,  where  were  they  ? 


360 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


And  where  are  they  ?  and  where  art  thou, 
My  country  ?    On  thy  voiceless  shore 

The  heroic  lay  is  tuneless  now — 
The  heroic  bosom  beats  no  more  ! 

And  must  thy  lyre,  so  long  divine, 

Degenerate  into  hands  like  mine  ? 

'Tis  something,  in  the  dearth  of  fame, 
Though  linked  among  a  fettered  race. 

To  feel  at  least  a  patriot's  shame. 
Even  as  I  sing,  suffuse  my  face  ; 

For  what  is  left  a  poet  here  ? 

For  Greeks  a  blush — for  Greece  a  tear. 

•  Must  we  but  weep  o'er  days  more  blest  ? 
Must  we  but  blush  ? — Our  fathers  bled. 
Earth  !  render  back  from  out  thy  breast 

A  remnant  of  our  Spartan  dead  ! 
Of  the  three  hundred  grant  but  three. 
To  make  a  new  Thermopylae ! 

What,  silent  still  ?  and  silent  all  ? 

Ah  !  no ; — the  voices  of  the  dead 
Sound  like  a  distant  torrent's  fall, 

And  answer,  "  Let  one  living  head, 
But  one  arise — we  come,  we  come  ! '  * 
'Tis  but  the  living  who  are  dumb. 

In  vain — in  vain  ;  strike  other  chords. 
Fill  high  the  cup  with  Samian  wine ! 

Leave  battles  to  the  Turkish  hordes, 
And  shed  the  blood  of  Scio's  vine  ! 

Hark !  rising  to  the  ignoble  call — 

How  answers  each  bold  Bacchanal ! 

You  have  the  Pyrrhic  dance  as  yet. 
Where  is  the  Fy  rrhic  phalanx  gone  ? 

Of  two  such  lessons,  why  forget 
The  nobler  and  the  manlier  one  ? 

You  have  the  letters  Cadmus  gave — 

Think  ye  he  meant  them  for  a  slave  ? 


Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  winel 
We  will  not  think  of  themes  like  these  I 

It  made  Anacreon's  song  divine  : 
He  served — but  served  Polycrates — 

A  tyrant ;  but  our  masters  then 

Were  still,  at  least,  our  countrymen. 

The  tyrant  of  the  Chersonese 

Was  freedom's  best  and  bravest  friend ; 
That  tyrant  was  Miltiades  ! 

Oh !  that  the  present  hour  would  lend 
Another  despot  of  the  kind ! 
Such  chains  as  his  were  sure  to  bind. 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine  ! 

On  Suli's  rock,  and  Parga's  shore, 
Exists  the  remnant  of  a  line 

Such  as  the  Doric  mothers  bore ; 
And  there,  perhaps,  some  seed  is  sown. 
The  Heracleidan  blood  might  own. 

Trust  not  for  freedom  to  the  Franks — 
They  have  a  king  who  buys  and  sells : 

In  native  swords,  and  native  ranks, 
The  only  hope  of  courage  dwells ; 

But  Turkish  force  and  Latin  fraud 

Would  break  your  shield,  however  broad. 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine  ! 

Our  virgins  dance  beneath  the  shade — 
I  see  their  glorious  black  eyes  shine ; 

But  gazing  on  each  glowing  maid. 
My  own  the  burning  tear-drop  laves, 
To  think  such  breasts  must  suckle  slaves. 

Place  me  on  Sunium's  marbled  steep, 
Where  nothing,  save  the  waves  and  I, 

May  hear  our  mutual  murmurs  sweep ; 
There,  swan-like,  let  me  sing  and  die : 

A  land  of  slaves  shall  ne'er  be  mine — 

Dash  down  yon  cup  of  Samian  wine  ! 

Lord  Byron. 


RELIGIOUS  LIFE. 


HYMN  OF  THE  DUNKERS. 


KLOSTER   KEDAR,   EPHRATA,   PENNSYLVANIA,  I738. 

ISisier  Maria  Christina  sings.'\ 


AKE,   sisters,   wake !    the 

day-star  shines ; 
Above  Ephrata's  eastern 

pines 
The    dawn  is  breaking, 

cool  and  calm. 
Wake,  sisters,    wake,  to 

prayer  and  psalm ! 

Praised  be  the  Lord  for 
shade  and  light. 

For  toil  by  day,  for  rest 
by  night ! 

Praised  be  His  name  who 
deigns  to  bless 

Our  Kedar  of  the  wilder- 


Our  refuge  when  the  spoiler's  hand 
Was  heavy  on  our  native  land  ; 
And  freedom  to  her  children  due, 
The  wolf  and  vulture  only  knew. 

We  praised  Him  when  to  prison  led, 
We  owned  Him  when  the  stake  blazed  red  ; 
We  knew,  whatever  might  befall, 
His  love  and  power  were  over  all. 

He  heard  our  prayers  ;  with  outstretched  arm 
He  led  us  forth  from  cruel  harm  ; 
Still,  whereso'er  our  steps  were  bent, 
His  cloud  and  fire  before  us  went ! 

The  watch  of  faith  and  prayer  He  set ; 
We  kept  it  then,  we  keep  it  yet. 
At  midnight,  crow  of  cock,  or  noon, 
He  Cometh  sure,  He  comethsoon. 

He  comes  to  chasten,  not  destroy. 
To  purge  the  earth  from  sin's  alloy. 
At  last,  at  last  shall  all  confess 
His  mercy  as  His  righteousness. 

The  dead  shall  live,  the  sick  be  whole  ; 
The  scarlet  sin  be  white  as  wool, 
No  discord  mar  below,  above, 
The  music  of  eternal  love  ! 

Sound  welcome  trump,  the  last  alarm  ! 
Lord  God  of  hosts  make  bare  Thine  arm, 
Fulfill  this  day  our  long  desire, 
Make  sweet  and  clean  the  world  with  fire  ! 


Sweep,  flaming  besom,  sweep  from  sight 
The  lies  of  time  ;  be  swift  to  smite. 
Sharp  sword  of  God,  all  idols  down, 
Genevan  creed  and  Roman  crown. 

Quake,  earth,  through  all  thy  zones,  till  all 
The  fanes  of  pride  and  priestcraft  fall ; 
And  lift  Thou  up  in  place  of  them 
The  gates  of  pearl,  Jerusalem  ! 

Lo  !  rising  from  the  baptismal  flame, 
Transfigured,  glorious,  yet  the  same, 
Within  the  heavenly  city's  bound 
Our  Kloster  Kedar  shall  be  found. 

He  Cometh  soon  !  at  dawn  or  noon 
Or  set  of  sun.  He  cometh  soon. 
Our  prayers  shall  meet  Him  on  His  way ; 
Wake,  sisters,  wake  !  arise  and  pray  ! 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier 


INTIMATIONS  OF  IMMORTALITY. 

HERE  was  a  time  when  meadow,  grove,  and 
stream. 
The  earth,  and  every  common  sight, 
To  me  did  seem 
Apparelled  in  celestial  light. 
The  glory  and  the  freshness  of  a  dream. 
It  is  Hot  now  as  it  hath  been  of  yore ; — 
Turn  wheresoe'er  I  may, 
By  night  or  day,  -•*' 
The  things  which  I  have  seen  I  now  can  see  no  more  ! 

The  rainbow  comes  and  goes, 
And  lovely  is  the  rose  ; 
The  moon  doth  with  delight 
Look  round  her  when  the  heavens  are  bare  ; 
Waters  pn  a  starry  night 
Are  beautiful  and  fair ; 
The  sunshine  is  a  glorious  birth  ; — 
But  yet  I  know,  where'er  I  go, 
That  there  has  passed  away  a  glory  from  the  earth. 

Ye  blessed  creatures,  I  have  heard  the  call 

Ye  to  each  other  make ;  I  see 
The  heavens  laugh  with  you  in  your  jubilee  ; 

My  heart  is  at  your  festival, 
My  head  hath  its  coronal. 
The  fulness  of  your  bliss  I  feel — I  feel  it  alL 

Oh,  evil  day  !  if  I  were  sullen. 

While  the  earth  herself  is  adorning, 
This  sweet  May-morning, 

And  the  children  are  pulling, 


(361) 


362 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


On  every  side, 
In  a  thousand  valleys  far  and  wide, 
Fresh  flowers  ;  while  the  sun  shines  warm, 
And  the  babe  leaps  up  on  his  mother's  arm. 

I  hear,  I  hear,  what  joy  I  hear ! 
— But  there's  a  tree,  of  many  one, 
A  single  field  which  I  have  looked  upon. 

Both  of  them  speak  of  something  that  is  gone  ; 
The  pansy  at  my  feet 
Doth  the  same  tale  repeat. 
Whither  is  fled  the  visionary  gltam  ? 
Where  is  it  now,  the  glory  and  the  dream  ? 

Our  birth  is  but  a  sleep  and  a  forgetting : 
The  soul  that  rises  with  us,  our  life's  star, 
Hath  had  elsewhere  its  setting, 

And  Cometh  from  afar ; 
Not  in  entire  forgetfulness, 
And  not  in  utter  nakedness. 
But,  trailing  clouds  of  glory,  do  we  come 

From  God,  who  is  our  home  : 
Heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy ! 
Shades  of  the  prison-house  begin  to  close 

Upon  the  growing  boy. 
But  he  beholds  the  light,  and  whence  it  flows, 

He  sees  it  in  his  joy ; 
The  youth,  who  daily  farther  from  the  East 
Must  travel,  still  is  nature's  priest, 
And  by  the  vision  splendid 
Is  on  his  way  attended  ; 
At  length  the  man  perceives  it  die  away, 
And  fade  into  the  light  of  common  day. 

Earth  fills  her  lap  with  pleasures  of  her.own  ; 
Yearnings  she  hath  in  her  natural  kind  ; 
And,  even  with  something  of  a  mother's  mind, 

And  no  unworthy  aim, 
The  homely  nurse  doth  all  she  can 
To  make  her  foster-child,  her  inmate  man, 

Forget  the  glories  he  hath  known 
And  that  imperial  palace  whence  he  came. 

The  thought  of  our  past  years  in  me  doth  breed 
Perpetual  benedictions  :  not  indeed 
For  that  which  is  most  worthy  to  be  blest ; 
Delight  and  liberty,  the  simple  creed 
Of  childhood,  whether  busy  or  at  rest. 
With  new-fledged  hope  still  fluttering  in  his  breast ; 
Not  for  these  I  raise 

The  songs  of  thanks  and  praise  ; 

But  for  those  obstinate  questionings 

Of  sense  and  outward  things, 

Fallings  from  us,  vanishings  ; 

Blank  misgivings  of  a  creature 
Moving  about  in  worlds  not  realized, 
High  instincts,  before  which  our  mortal  nature 
Did  tremble,  like  a  guilty  thing  surprised ! 


But  for  those  first  affections, 
Those  shadowy  recollections, 

Which,  be  they  what  they  may. 
Are  yet  the  fountain  light  of  all  our  day. 
Are  yet  a  master  light  of  all  our  seeing  ; 

Uphold  us — cherish — and  have  power  to  make 
Our  noisy  years  seem  moments  in  the  being 
Of  the  eternal  silence :  truths  that  wake 

To  perish  never ; 
Which  neither  listlessness,  nor  mad  endeavor. 

Nor  man,  nor  boy. 
Nor  all  that  is  at  enmity  with  joy, 
Can  utterly  abolish  or  destroy  : 

Hence,  in  a  season  of  calm  weather. 
Though  inland  far  we  be. 
Our  souls  have  sight  of  that  immortal  sea 
Which  brought  us  hither ; 
Can  in  a  moment  travel  thither — 
And  see  the  children  sport  upon  the  shore. 
And  hear  the  mighty  waters  rolling  evermore. 

Then,  sing,  ye  birds,  sing,  sing  a  joyous  song ! 
And  let  the  young  lambs  bound 
As  to  the  tabor's  sound  ! 
We,  in  thought,  will  join  your  throng, 
Ye  that  pipe  and  ye  that  play, 
Ye  that  through  your  hearts  to-day 
Feel  the  gladness  of  the  May  ! 

What  though  the  radiance  which  was  once  so  bright 

Be  now  for  ever  taken  from  thy  sight — 

Though  nothing  can  bring  back  the  hour 

Of  splendor  in  the  grass,  of  glory  in  the  flower ; 
We  will  grieve  not,  rather  find 
Strength  in  what  remains  behind, 
In  the  primal  sympathy, 
Which,  having  been,  must  ever  be. 
In  the  soothing  thoughts  that  spring 
Out  of  huAan  suflTering, 
In  the  faith  that  looks  through  death. 

In  years  that  bring  the  philosophic  mind. 

And  oh,  ye  fountains,  meadows,  hills,  and  groves. 

Think  not  of  any  severing  of  your  loves ! 

Yet  in  my  heart  of  hearts  I  feel  your  might ; 

I  only  have  relinquished  one  delight. 

To  live  beneath  your  more  habitual  sway. 

I  love  the  brooks,  which  down  their  channels  fret, 

Even  more  than  when  I  tripped  lightly  as  they  ; 

The  innocent  brightness  of  a  new-born  day 

Is  lovely  yet; 
The  clouds  that  gather  round  the  setting  sun 
Do  take  a  sober  coloring  from  an  eye 
That  hath  kept  watch  o'er  man's  mortality ; 
Another  race  hath  been,  and  other  palms  are  won. 
Thanks  to  the  human  heart  by  which  we  live ; 
Thanks  to  its  tenderness,  its  joys,  and  fears ; 
To  me  the  meanest  flower  that  blows  can  give 
Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears. 

William  Wordsworth. 


RELIGIOUS   LIFE. 


363 


TRUE  FAITH. 

LD  Reuben  Fisher,  who  lived  in  the  lane, 
Was  never  in  life  disposed  to  complain ; 
If  the  weather  proved  fair,  he  thanked  God 
for  the  sun, 

And  if  it  were  rainy,  with  him  'twas  all  one; — 
"  I  have  just  the  weather  I  fancy,"  said  he  ; 
"For  what  pleases  God  always  satisfies  me." 

If  trouble  assailed,  his  brow  was  ne'er  dark, 
And  his  eye  never  lost  its  happiest  spark. 
"  'Twill  not  better  fix  it  to  gloom  or  to  sigh  ; 
To  make  the  best  of  it  I  always  shall  try  ! 
So,  care,  do  your  worst,"  said  Reuben  with  glee, 
"And  which  of  us  conquers,  we  shall  see,  we  shall 
see." 

If  his  children  were  wild,  as  children  will  prove, 
His  temper  ne'er  lost  its  warm  aspect  of  love ; 
"  My  dear  wife,"  he  d  say,  "  dont  worry  nor  fret ; 
'Twill  be  all  right  with  the  wayward  ones  yet  ; 
'Tis  the  folly  of  youth,  that  must  have  its  way  ; 
They'll  penitent  turn  from  their  evil  some  day." 

If  a  name  were  assailed,  he  would  cheerily  say, 

"Well,  well ;  we'll  not  join  in  the  cry,  anyway; 

There  are  always  two  sides  to  every  tale — 

And  the  true  one  at  last  is  sure  to  prevail. 

There  is  an  old  rule  that  I  learned  when  a  lad — 

'  Deem  every  one  good  till  he's  proved  to  be  bad.' " 

And  when  in  the  meshes  of  sin  tightly  bound. 
The  reckless  and  luckless  mortal  was  found, 
Proscribed  by  every  woman  and  man, 
And  put  under  rigid  and  merciless  ban, 
Old  Reuben  would  say,  with  sympathy  fraught, 
"  We  none  of  us  do  half  as  well  as  we  ought." 

If  friends  waxed  cold,  he'd  say  with  a  smile — 
' '  Well,  if  they  must  go,  Heaven  bless  them  the  while  ; 
We  walked  a  sweet  path  till  the  crossing  ways  met, 
And  though  we  have  parted,  I'll  cherish  them  yet ; 
They'll  go  by  their  way  and  1 11  go  by  mine 
Perhaps  in  the  city  ahead  we  shall  join." 

There  were  sickness  and  death  at  last  in  his  cot, 
But  still  Reuben  Fisher  in  sorrow  blenched  not : 
"  'Tis  the  Father  afflicts :  let  Him  do  what  He  will ; 
What  comes  from  His  hand  can  mean  us  no  ill ; 
I  cheerfully  give  back  the  blessing  He  lent. 
And  through  faith  in  the  future  find  present  content." 

Then  he  lay  on  his  death-bed  at  last  undismayed ; 
No  terror  had  death  at  which  he  was  afraid ; 
"Living  or  dying,  'tis  all  well  with  me, 
For  God's  will  is  my  will,"  submissive  said  he. 
And  so  Reuben  died,  with  his  breast  full  of  grace. 
That  beamed  in  a  smile  on  his  time-furrowed  face, 

B.  P.  Shillaber. 


UJ' 


THE  MODEL  CHURCH. 

ELL,  I've  found  the  model  church — I  wor- 
shipped there  to-day ! 
It  made  me  think  of  good  old  times,  before 
my  hair  was  gray. 
The  meetin'-house  was  fixed  up  more  than  they  were 

years  ago, 
But  then  I  felt  when  I  went  in,  it  wasn't  built  for  show. 

The  sexton  didn't  seat  me  away  back  by  the  door; 
He  knew  that  I  was  old  and  deaf,  as  well  as  old  and 

poor: 
He  must  have  been  a  Christian,  for  he  led  me  through 
The  long  aisle  of  that  crowded  church,  to  find  a  place 

and  pew. 

I  wish  you'd  heard  that  singin' — it  had  the  old  time 

ring ; 
The  preacher  said,  with  trumpet  voice,  "  Let  all  the 

people  sing ! " 
The  tune  was  Coronation,  and  the  music  upward 

rolled, 
Till  I  thought  I  heard  the  angels  all  striking  harps 

of  gold. 

My  deafness  seemed  to  melt  away  ;  my  spirit  caught 
the  fire ; 

I  joined  my  feeble,  trembling  voice,  with  that  melo- 
dious choir, 

And  sang  as  in  my  youthful  days,  "Let  angels  pros- 
trate fall, 

Bring  forth  the  royal  diadem,  and  crown  Him  Lord 
of  all."  '* 

I  tell  you,  wife,  it  did  me  good  to  sing  that  hymn  once 

more  ; 
I  felt  like  some  wrecked  mariner  who  gets  a  glimpse 

of  shore ; 
I  almost  wanted  to  lay  down  this  weather-beaten 

form. 
And  anchor  in  the  blessed  port  forever  from  the 

storm. 

The  preachin'  ?  Well,  I  can't  just  tell  all  the  preacher 

said ; 
I  know  it  wasn't  written  ;  I  know  it  wasn't  read  ; 
He  hadn't  time  to  read  it,  for  the  lightnin'  of  his  eye 
Went  flashin'  along  from  pew  to  pew,  nor  passed  a 

sinner  by. 

The  sermon  wasn't  flowery,  'twas  simple  Gospel  truth; 
It  fitted  poor  old  men  like  me,  it  fitted  hopeful  youth. 
'Twas  full  of  consolation  for  weary  hearts  that  bleed  ; 
'Twas  full  of  invitations  to  Christ,  and  to  His  creed. 

The  preacher  made  sin  hideous  in  Gentiles  and  in 

Jews ; 
He  shot  the  golden  sentences  down  in  the  finest  pews, 


364 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


And — though  I  can't  see  very  well — I  saw  the  falling 

tear  ' 

That  told  me  hell  was  some  ways  off,  and  heaven  very 

near. 

How  swift  the  golden  moments  fled  within  that  holy 

place ! 
How  brightly  beamed  the  light  of  heaven  from  every 

happy  face  ! 
Again  I  longed  for  that  sweet  time  when  friend  shall 

meet  with  friend, 
"Where  congregations  ne'er  break  up,  and  Sabbaths 

have  no  end." 

I  hope  to  meet  that  minister — that  congregation,  too — 
In  that  dear  home  beyond  the  stars  that  shine  from 

heaven's  blue. 
I  doubt  not  I'll  remember,  beyond  life's  evening  gray, 
That  happy  hour  of  worship  in  that  model  church  to- 
day. 

Dear  wife,  the  fight  will  soon  be  fought,  the  victory  be 

won  ; 
The  shining  goal  is  just  ahead,  the  race  is  nearly  run. 
O'er  the  river  we  are  nearin',  they  are  throngin'  to  the 

shore, 
To  shout  our  safe  arrival  where  the  weary  weep  no 

more. 

John  H.  Yates. 

SHALL  WE  KNOW  EACH  OTHER  THERE? 


HEN  we  hear  the  music  ringing 
In  the  bright  celestial  dome  — 
When  sweet  angels'  voices,  singing. 
Gladly  bid  us  welcome  home 
To  the  land  of  ancient  story,      « 

Where  the  spirit  knows  no  care. 
In  that  land  of  life  and  glory — 
Shall  we  know  each  other  there  ? 

When  the  holy  angels  meet  us. 

As  we  go  to  join  their  band, 
Shall  we  know  the  friends  that  greet  us 

In  that  glorious  spirit  land  ? 
Shall  we  see  the  same  eyes  shining 

On  us  as  in  days  of  yore  ? 
Shall  we  feel  the  dear  arms  twining 

Fondly  round  us  as  before  ? 

Yes>  my  earth-worn  soul  rejoices. 

And  my  weary  heart  grows  light, 
For  the  thrilling  angels'  voices 

And  the  angel  faces  bright. 
That  shall  welcome  us  in  heaven, 

Are  the  loved  ones  long  ago ; 
And  to  them  'tis  kindly  given 

Thus  their  mortal  friends  to  know. 

Oh  ye  weary,  sad,  and  tossed  ones, 
Droop  not,  faint  not  by  the  way  ! 


Ye  shall  join  the  loved  and  just  ones 

In  that  land  of  perfect  day. 
Harp-strings,  touched  by  angel  fingers, 

Murmured  in  my  rapturous  ear  ; — 
Evermore  their  sweet  song  lingers — 
"We  shall  know  each  other  there." 


HE  DOETH  HIS  ALMS  TO  BE  SEEN  OF  MEN. 

POOR  little  girl  in  a  tattered  gown. 
Wandering  alone  through  the  crowded  town. 
All  weary  and  worn,  on  the  curb  sat  down, 
By  the  side  of  the  way  to  rest ; 
Bedimmed  with  tears  were  her  eyes  of  brown. 
Her  hands  on  her  bosom  pressed. 

The  night  was  approaching — the  winter's  chill  blast 
That  fell  on  the  child  as  he  hurried  past, 
Concealed  the  tears  that  were  falling  fast 

From  the  poor  little  maiden's  eye — 
The  blinding  snow  on  her  pale  cheek  cast, 

Unheeded  her  plaintive  cry. 

Now  hurriedly  passing  along  the  street, 
She  catches  the  sound  of  approaching  feet ; 
And  wearily  rises,  as  if  to  entreat 

Some  aid  from  the  passer  by  ; 
But  slowly  and  sadly  resumes  her  seat, 
-  Repelled  by  the  glance  of  his  eye. 

He  saw  the  wind  tempest  resistlessly  hurl 
The  gathering  snow-flakes,  with  many  a  whirl, ' 
Upon  her  bare  head,  where  each  soft-shining  curl 

Was  swept  by  the  breath  of  the  storm  ; 
But  what  did  he  care  for  the  little  girl — 

His  raiment  was  ample  and  warm ! 

He  went  to  a  charity  meeting  that  night 
And  spoke,  to  the  listeners'  great  delight, 
Of  how  'twas  the  duty  of  all  to  unite, 

The  suffering  poor  to  relieve  ; 
And  held  up  his  check  for  a  thousand  at  sight, 

So  all  of  the  crowd  could  perceive. 

He  handed  the  check  to  the  treasurer,  when 
The  audience  applauded  again  and  again, 
But  the  angel  who  holds  the  recording  pen 

This  sentence  methinks  did  record  : 
'He  doeth  his  alms  to  be  seen  of  men. 

Their  praise  is  his  only  reward." 

The  paper  next  morning  had  much  to  say 
Of  how  the  ' '  good  gentleman ' '  did  display 
His  generous  spirit,  in  giving  away 

So  much  for  the  poor  man's  cause. 
He  smiled  as  he  read  his  own  praise  that  day 

And  thought  of  the  night's  applause. 

Near  by,  the  same  paper  went  on  to  repeat 

A  story  they'd  heard,  of  how,  out  on  the  street, 

A  watchman  at  dawning  of  morn  on  his  beat,  ^ 


RELIGIOUS   LIFE. 


365 


A  poor  little  child  had  found— 
With  only  the  snow  for  a  winding  sheet — 
Frozen  to  death  on  the  g^round ! 

Ah  !  who  can  declare  that  when  God  shall  unfold 

Eternity's  records,  he  will  not  hold 

Him  guilty  of  murder,  who  seeks  with  his  gold, 

In  charity's  name  to  buy 
The  praises  of  men,  while  out  in  the  cold 

He  leaves  a  poor  child  to  die. 


THE  WEARY  SOUL 

CAME,  but  they  had  passed  away, 

The  fair  in  form,  the  pure  in  mind  ; 
And,  like  a  stricken  deer,  I  stray, 
Where  all  are  strange,  and  none  are  kind ; 
Kind  to  a  worn  and  wearied  soul. 

That  pants,  that  struggles  for  repose  : 
Oh.  that  my  steps  had  reached  the  goal 
Where  earthly  sighs  and  sorrows  close  I 

Years  have  passed  o'er  me  like  a  dream. 

That  leaves  no  trace  on  memoi^^'s  page, 
I  look  around  me,  and  I  seem 

Some  relic  of  a  former  age; 
Alone,  and  in  a  stranger  clime. 

Where  stranger  voices  mock  mine  ear — 
In  all  the  lagging  course  of  time. 

Without  a  wish — a  hope — a  fear  ! 

Yet  I  had  hopes — but  they  have  fled  ; 

And  fears — and  they  were  all  too  true ; 
And  wishes  too— but  they  are  dead, 

And  what  have  I  with  life  to  do? 
'Tis  but  to  bear  a  weary  load 

I  may  not,  dare  not,  cast  away, 
To  sigh  for  one  small,  still  abode, 

Where  I  may  sleep  as  sweet  as  they — 

,  As  they,  the  loveliest  of  their  race, 

Whose  grassy  tombs  my  sorrows  steep, 
Whose  worth  my  soul  delights  to  trace. 

Whose  very  loss  'tis  sweet  to  weep : 
To  weep,  forgotten  and  unknown. 

With  none  to  smile,  to  hear,  to  see  ; — 
Earth  can  bestow  no  dearer  boon 

On  one  whom  death  disdains  to  free. 

I  leave  a  world  that  knows  me  not. 

To  hold  communion  with  tlie  dead, 
And  fancy  consecrates  the  spot, 

Where  fancy's  earliest  dreams  were  shed. 
I  see  each  shade,  all  silvery  white, 

I  hear  each  spirit's  melting  sigh  ; 
I  turn  to  clasp  those  forms  of  light, 

And  the  pale  moniing  chills  mine  eye! 

But  soon  the  last  dim  morn  shall  rise — 
My  lamp  of  life  burns  feebly  now — 


Where  stranger  hands  shall  close  mine  eyes, 
And  smooth  my  cold  and  dewy  brow ; 

Unknown  I  lived — so  let  me  die  ; 
No  stone,  nor  monumental  cross, 

Tell  where  his  mouldering  ashes  lie. 
Who  sought  for  gold,  and  found  it  dross. 

THE    MESSIAH. 

E  nymphs  of  Solyma  !  begin  the  song  : 
To  heavenly  themes  sublimer  strains  belong. 
The  mossy  fountains,  and  the  sylvan  shades. 
The  dreams  of  Pindus  and  the  Aonian  maids, 
Delight  no  more — O  Thou  my  voice  inspire 
Who  touched  Isaiah's  hallowed  lips  with  fire ! 

Rapt  into  future  times,  the  bard  begun  : 
A  Virgin  shall  conceive,  a  Virgin  bear  a  Son  ! 
From  Jesse's  root  behold  a  branch  arise, 
Whose  sacred  flower  with  fragrance  fills  the  skies  : 
The  ethereal  spirit  o'er  its  leaves  shall  move. 
And  on  its  top  descends  the  mystic  dove. 
Ye  heavens !  from  high  the  dewy  nectar  pour, 
And  in  soft  silence  shed  the  kindly  shower  ! 
The  sick  and  weak  the  healing  plant  shall  aid, 
From  storms  a  shelter,  and  from  heat  a  shade. 
All  crimes  shall  cease,  and  ancient  fraud  shall  fail ; 
Returning  justice  lift  aloft  her  scale  ; 
Peace  o'er  the  world  her  olive  wand  extend, 
And  white-robed  innocence  from  heaven  descend. 
Swift  fly  the  years,  and  rise  the  expected  morn  ! 
Oh  spring  of  light,  auspicious  Babe,  be  born  ! 
See  nature  hastes  her  earliest  wreathes  to  bring, 
With  all  the  incense  of  the  breathing  spring  : 
See  lofty  Lebanon  his  head  advance, 
See  nodding  forests  on  the  mountains  dance  : 
See  spicy  clouds  from  lowly  Saron  rise. 
And  Carmel's  flowery  top  perfumes  the  skies  ! 
Hark  !  a  glad  voice  the  lonely  desert  cheers  ; 
Prepare  the  way  !  a  God,  a  God  appears: 
A  God,  a  God !  the  vocal  hills  reply. 
The  rocks  proclaim  the  approaching  Deity. 
Lo,  earth  receives  him  from  the  bending  skies  ! 
Sink  down,  ye  mountains,  and,  ye  valleys,  rise  ; 
With  heads  declined,  ye  cedars,  homage  pay  ; 
Be  smooth,  ye  rocks  ;  ye  rapid  floods,  give  way  ; 
The  Saviour  comes  !  by  ancient  bards  foretold  ! 
Hear  him,  ye  deaf,  and  all  ye  blind,  behold  ! 
He  from  thick  films  shall  purge  the  visual  ray, 
And  on  the  sightless  eyeball  pour  the  day  : 
'Tis  he  the  obstructed  paths  of  sound  shall  clear, 
And  bid  new  music  charm  the  unfolding  ear  : 
The  dumb  shall  sing,  the  lame  his  crutch  forego, 
And  leap  exulting  like  the  bounding  roe. 
No  sigh,  no  murmur  the  wide  world  shall  hear. 
From  every  face  he  wipes  off  every  tear. 
In  adamantine  chains  shall  death  be  bound. 
And  hell's  grim  tyrant  feel  the  eternal  wound. 
As  the  good  shepherd  tends  his  fleecy  care. 
Seeks  freshest  pasture  and  the  purest  air, 


366 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


Explores  the  lost,  the  wandering  sheep  directs, 
By  day  o'ersees  them,  and  by  night  protects, 
The  tender  lambs  he  raises  in  his  arms, 
Feeds  from  his  hand,  and  in  his  bosom  warms; 
Thus  shall  mankind  his  guardian  care  engage. 
The  promised  Father  of  the  future  age. 
No  more  shall  nation  against  nation  rise, 
Nor  ardent  warriors  meet  with  hateful  eyes, 
Nor  fields  with  gleaming  steel  be  covered  o'er, 
The  brazen  trumpets  kindle  rage  no  more ; 
But  useless  lances  into  scythes  shall  bend, 
And  the  broad  falchion  in  a  ploughshare  end. 
Then  palaces  shall  rise ;  the  joyful  son 
Shall  finish  what  his  short-lived  sire  begun; 
Their  vines  a  shadow  to  their  race  shall  yield, 
And  the  same  hand  that  sowed,  shall  reap  the  field. 
The  swain,  in  barren  deserts  with  surprise 
See  lilies  spring,  and  sudden  verdure  rise  ; 
And  start,  amidst  the  thirsty  wilds,  to  hear 
New  falls  of  water  murmuring  in  his  ear. 
On  rifted  rocks,  the  dragon's  late  abodes, 
The  green  reed  trembles,  and  the  bulrush  nods. 
Waste  sandy  valleys,  once  perplexed  with  thorn, 
The  spiry  fir  and  shapely  box  adorn  ; 
To  leafless  shrub,  the  flowering  palms  succeed, 
And  odorous  myrtle  to  the  noisome  weed. 
The  lambs  with  wolves  shall  graze  the  verdant  mead, 
And  boys  in  flowery  bands  the  tiger  lead  ; 
The  steer  and  Hon  at  one  crib  shall  meet. 
And  harmless  serpents  lick  the  pi'grim's  feet. 
The  smiling  infant  in  his  hand  shall  take  , 

The  crested  basilisk  and  speckled  snake. 
Pleased  the  green  lustre  of  the  scales  survey. 
And  with  their  forky  tongue  shall  innocently  play. 
Rise,  crowned  with  light,  imperial  Salem,  rise ! 
Exalt  thy  towery  head,  and  lift  thy  eyes  ! 
See,  a  long  race  thy  spacious  courts  adorn  ; 
See  future  sons,  and  daughters  yet  unborn, 
In  crowding  ranks  on  every  side  arise, 
Demanding  life,  impatient  for  the  skies  1 
See  barbarous  nations  at  thy  gates  attend. 
Walk  in  thy  light,  and  in  thy  temple  bend; 
See  thy  bright  altars  thronged  with  pnjstrate  kings, 
And  heaped  with  products  of  Sabean  springs. 
For  thee  Idume's  spicy  forests  blow, 
And  seeds  of  gold  in  Ophir's  mountains  glow. 
See  heaven  its  sparkling  portals  wide  display, 
And  break  upon  thee  in  a  flood  of  day. 
No  more  the  rising  sun  shall  g.ld  tlie  morn. 
Nor  evening  Cynthia  fill  her  silver  horn  ; 
But  lost,  dissolved  in  thy  superior  rays. 
One  tide  of  glory,  one  unclouded  blaze 
O'erflovv  thy  courts  ;  the  Light  himself  shall  shine 
Revealed,  and  God's  eternal  daj*  be  thine  ! 
The  seas  shall  waste,  the  skies  in  smoke  decay. 
Rocks  fall  to  dust,  and  mountains  melt  away  ; 
But  fixed  his  word,  his  saving  power  remains  ; 
Thy  realm  forever  lasts,  thy  own  Messiah  reigns  ! 

Alexander  Pope. 


I  WILL  FEAR  NO  EVIL 

*HY  way,  not  mine.  Oh  Lord, 
However  dark  it  be  ; 
Lead  me  by  Thine  own  hand  ; 
T  Choose  out  the  path  for  me. 

Smooth  let  it  be  or  rough. 

It  will  be  still  the  best ; 
Winding  or  straight,  it  matters  not, 

It  leads  me  to  Thy  rest. 

I  dare  not  choose  my  lot, 

I  would  not,  if  I  might ; 
Choose  Thou  for  me,  my  God, 

So  shall  I  walk  aright. 

The  kingdom  that  I  seek 

Is  Thine,  so  let  the  way 
Tliat  leads  to  it  be  Thine, 

Else  I  must  surely  stray. 

Take  Thou  my  cup,  and  it 

With  joy  or  sorrow  fill. 
As  best  to  Thee  may  seem  : 

Choose  Thou  my  good  and  ill. 

Choose  Thou  for  me,  my  friend, 

My  sickness  and  my  health ; 
Choose  Thou  my  cares  for  me. 

My  poverty  or  wealth. 

Not  mine,  not  mine,  the  choice, 

In  things  or  great  or  small ; 
Be  Thou  my  guide,  my  strength. 

My  wisdom,  and  my  all. 

PIORATIUS   BONAR. 


TWILL  NOT  BE  LONG. 

WILL  not  be  long — this  wearying  commotion 
That  marks  its  passage  in  the  human  breast, 
And,  like  the  billows  on  the  heaving  ocean. 
That  ever  rock  the  cradle  of  unrest, 
Will  soon  subside  ;  the  happy  time  is  nearing. 

When  bliss,  not  pain,  shall  have  its  rich  increase  ; 
E'en  unto  thee  the  dove  may  now  be  steering 
With  gracious  message.     Wait,  and  hold  thy  peace  ; 
'Twill  not  be  long  ! 

The  lamps  go  out ;  the  stars  give  up  their  shining ; 

The  world  is  lost  in  darkness  for  awhile  ; 
And  foolish  hearts  give  way  to  sad  repining. 

And  feel  as  though  they  ne'er  again  could  smile. 
Why  murmur  thus,  the  needful  lesson  scorning  ? 

Oh,  read  thy  Teacher  and  His  word  aright ! 
The  world  would  have  no  greeting  for  the  morning, 

If  'twere  not  for  the  darkness  of  the  night ; 
'Twill  not  be  long! 

'Twill  not  be  long  ;  the  strife  will  soon  be  ended ; 
The  doubts,  the  fears,  the  agony,  the  pain, 


RELIGIOUS  LIFE. 


367 


Will  seem  but  as  the  clouds  that  low  descended 
To  yield  their  pleasure  to  the  parched  plain. 

The  times  of  weakness  and  of  sore  temptations, 
Of  bitter  grief  and  agonizing  cry  ; 

These  earthly  cares  and  ceaseless  tribulations 

Will  bring  a  blissful  harvest  by-and-by — 

'Twill  not  be  long ! 

'Twill  not  be  long  ;  the  eye  of  faith,  discerning 

The  wondrous  glory  that  shall  be  revealed, 
Instnicts  the  soul,  that  every  day  is  learning 

Tlie  better  wisdom  which  the  world  concealed. 
And  soon,  aye,  soon,  there'll  be  an  end  of  teaching, 

When  mortal  vision  finds  immortal  .'^ight, 
And  her  true  place  the  soul  in  gladness  reaching, 

Beholds  the  glory  of  the  Infinite — • 
'Twill  not  be  long  ! 

"  'Twill  not  be  long  !  "  the  heart  goes  on  repeating  ; 

It  is  the  burden  of  the  mourner's  song ; 
The  work  of  grace  in  us  He  is  completing, 

Who  thus  assures  us — "  It  will  not  be  long;" 
His  rod  and  staff  our  fainting  steps  sustaining, 

Our  hope  and  comfort  every  day  will  be  ; 
And  we  may  bear  our  cross  as  uncomplaining 

As  He  who  leads  us  unto  Calvary  ; 
'Twill  not  be  long  ! 


LORD  HELP  ME. 

'HE  way  seems  dark  about  me — overhead 
The  clouds  have  long  since  met  in  gloomy 
spread, 

''f       And  when  I  looked  to  see  the  day  break 
through, 
Cloud  after  cloud  came  up  with  volume  new. 

And  in  that  shadow  I  have  passed  along, 
Feeling  myself  grow  weak  as  it  grew  strong, 
Walking  in  doubt,  and  searching  for  the  way, 
And  often  at  a  stand — as  now,  to-day. 

And  if  before  me  on  the  path  there  lies 
A  spot  of  brightness  from  imagined  skies, 
Imagined  shadows  fall  across  it  too, 
And  the  far  future  takes  the  present's  hue. 

Perplexities  do  throng  upon  my  sight, 

Like  scudding  fogbanks,  and  obscure  the  light ; 

Some  new  dilemma  rises  every  day, 

And  I  can  only  shut  my  eyes  and  pray. 

Lord,  I  am  not  sufficient  for  these  things, 
Give  me  the  light  that  Thy  sweet  presence  brings  ; 
Give  me  Thy  grace,  give  me  Thy  constant  strength — 
Lord,  for  my  comfort  now  appear  at  length. 

It  may  be  that  my  way  doth  seem  confused, 
Because  my  heart  of  Thy  way  is  afraid ; 
Because  my  eyes  have  constantly  refused 
To  see  the  only  opening  Thou  hast  made ; 


Because  my  will  would  cross  some  flowery  plain, 
Where  Thou  hast  thrown  a  hedge  from  side  to  side  ; 
And  turneth  from  the  stony  walk  of  pain, 
Its  trouble  and  its  ease  not  even  tried. 

If  thus  I  try  to  force  my  way  along, 
The  smoothest  road  encumbered  is  for  me ; 
For  were  I  as  an  angel  swift  and  strong, 
I  could  not  go  unless  allowed  by  Thee. 

And  now,  I  pray  Thee,  Lord,  to  lead  the  child — 
Poor  wretched  wanderer  from  Thy  grace  and  love  — 
Whatever  way  Thou  pleasest  through  the  wild, 
So  it  but  take  me  to  Thy  home  above. 


"  PEACE  I  LEAVE  WITH  YOU." 

'  OURCE  of  my  life's  refreshing  springs. 

Whose  presence  in  my  heart  sustains  me, 
Thy  love  appoints  my  pleasant  things, 
Thy  mercy  orders  all  that  pains  me; 

If  loving  hearts  were  never  lonely. 
If  all  they  wish  might  ever  be, 

Accepting  what  they  looked  for  only, 
They  might  be  glad,  but  not  in  Thee. 

Well  may  Thy  own  beloved  who  see 
In  all  their  lot  their  Father's  pleasure. 

Bear  loss  of  all  they  love,  save  Thee, 
Their  living  everlasting  treasure. 

Well  may  Thy  happy  children  cease 
From  restless  wishes,  born  of  sin. 

And,  in  Thy  own  exceeding  peace. 
Yield  to  Thy  daily  discipline. 

We  need  as  much  the  cross  we  bear, 
As  air  we  breathe — as  light  we  see  ; 

It  draws  us  to  Thy  side  in  prayer, 
It  binds  us  to  our  strength  in  Thee. 

Mrs.  Waring. 


Ill 


AS  THOU  WILT. 

Y  Jesus,  as  Thou  wih, 

Oh,  may  Thy  will  be  mine, 
Into  Thy  hand  of  love 
I  would  my  all  resign. 
Through  sorrow,  or  through  joy, 

Conduct  me  as  Thine  own, 
And  help  me  still  to  say. 
My  Lord,  Thy  will  be  done. 

My  Jesus,  as  Thou  wilt, 

If  needy  here  and  poor. 
Give  me  Thy  people's  bread, 

Their  portion  rich  and  sure. 
The  manna  of  Thy  word 

Let  my  soul  feed  upon  ; 
And  if  all  else  should  fail, 

My  Lord,  Thy  will  be  done. 


368 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


My  Jesus,  as  Thou  wilt, 

If  among  thorns  I  go, 
Still  sometimes  here  and  there 

Let  a  few  roses  blow. 
But  Thou  on  earth  along 

A  thorny  path  hast  gone. 
Then  lead  me  after  Thee, 

My  Lord,  Thy  will  be  done. 

My  Jesus,  as  Thou  wilt, 

Though  seen  through  many  a  tear. 
Let  not  my  star  of  hope 

Grow  dim  and  disappear. 
Since  Thou  on  earth  hast  wept, 

And  sorrowed  oft  alone, 
If  I  must  weep  with  Thee, 

My  Lord,  Thy  will  be  done. 

My  Jesus,  as  Thou  wilt, 

If  loved  ones  must  depart. 
Suffer  not  sorrow's  flood 

To  overwhelm  my  heart. 
For  they  are  blessed  with  Thee, 

Their  race  and  conflict  won  ; 
Let  me  but  follow  them, 

My  Lord,  Thy  will  be  done. 

My  Jesus,  as  thou  wilt, 

When  death  itself  draws  nigh. 
To  Thy  dear  wounded  side 

I  would  for  refuge  fly. 
Leaning  on  Thee,  to  go 

Where  Thou  before  hast  gone  ; 
And  rest  as  Thou  shalt  please. 

My  Lord,  Thy  will  be  done. 

My  Jesus,  as  Thou  wilt. 

All  shall  be  well  for  me  : 
Each  changing  future  scene 

I  gladly  trust  with  Thee. 
Straight  to  my  home  above 

I  travel  calmly  on. 
And  sing  in  life  or  death. 

My  Lord,  Thy  will  be  done. 

Benjamin  Schmolke. 


OVER  THE  RIVER. 

VER  the  river  they  beckon  to  me. 

Loved  ones  who  crossed  to  the  other  side; 
The  gleam  of  their  snowy  robes  I  see, 
But  their  voices  are  drowned  by  the  rush- 
ing tide. 
There's  one  with  ringlets  of  sunny  gold, 

And  eyes  the  reflection  of  heaven's  own  blue ; 
He  crossed  in  the  twilight  gray  and  cold. 

And  the  pale  mist  hid  him  from  mortal  view. 
We  saw  not  the  angels  that  met  him  there — 

The  gate  of  the  city  we  could  not  see  ; 
Over  the  river,  over  the  river. 
My  brother  stands,  waiting  to  welcome  me. 


Over  the  river  the  boatman  pale 

Carried  another,  the  household  pet ; 
Her  brown  curls  waved  in  the  gentle  gale — 

Darling  Minnie  1  I  see  her  yet! 
She  closed  on  her  bosom  her  dimpled  hands. 

And  fearlessly  entered  the  phantom  bark  ; 
We  watched  it  glide  from  the  silver  sands. 

And  all  our  sunshine  grew  strangely  dark. 
We  know  she  is  safe  on  the  further  side. 

Where  all  the  ransomed  and  angels  be  ; 
Over  the  river,  the  mystic  river. 

My  childhood's  idol  is  waiting  for  me. 

For  none  return  from  those  quiet  shores. 

Who  cross  with  the  boatman  cold  and  pale  ; 
We  hear  the  dip  of  the  golden  oars. 

And  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  snowy  sail  ; 
And  lo !  they  have  passed  from  our  yearning  hearts- 

They  cross  the  stream  and  are  gone  for  aye. 
We  may  not  sunder  the  vail  apart 

That  hides  from  our  vision  the  gates  of  day  ; 
We  only  know  that  their  barks  no  more 

Sail  with  us  o'er  life's  stormy  sea; 
Yet  somewhere,  I  know,  on  the  unseen  shore. 

They  watch,  and  beckon,  and  wait  for  me. 

And  I  sit  and  think  when  the  sunset's  gold 

Is  flashing  on  river,  and  hill,  and  shore, 
I  shall  one  day  stand  by  the  waters  cold 

And  list  to  the  sound  of  the  boatman's  oar. 
I  shall  watch  for  a  gleam  of  the  flapping  sail ; 

I  shall  hear  the  boat  as  it  gains  the  strand  ; 
I  shall  pass  from  sight  with  the  boatman  pale 

To  the  better  shore  of  the  spirit-land. 
I  shall  know  the  loved  who  have  gone  before, 

And  joyfully  sweet  will  the  meeting  be. 
When  over  the  river,  the  peaceful  river, 

The  angel  of  death  shall  carry  me. 

Nancy  Woodbury  Priesi. 


THE  FATHER'S  LOVE. 

GOD  !  though  sorrow  be  my  fate. 
And  the  world's  hate 

For  my  heart's  faith  pursue  me. 
My  peace  ihey  cannot  take  away  ; 
From  day  to  day 

Thou  dost  anew  imbue  me  ; 
Thou  art  not  far  ;  a  little  while 
Thou  hidest  thy  face,  with  brighter  smile 
Thy  father-love  to  show  me. 

Lord,  not  my  will,  but  Thine,  be  done  ; 
If  I  sink  down 

When  men  to  terrors  leave  me. 
Thy  father-love  still  warms  my  breast ; 
All's  for  the  best ; 

Shall  man  have  power  to  grieve  me, 
When  bliss  eternal  is  my  goal. 
And  Thou  the  keeper  of  my  soul, 

Who  never  will  deceive  me? 


RELIGIOUS  LIFE. 


369 


Thou  art  my  shield,  as  saith  the  Word. 
Christ  Jesus,  Lord, 

Thou  standest  pitying  by  me, 
And  lookest  on  each  grief  of  mine 
As  if  'twere  Thine  : 

Wliat,  then,  though  foes  may  try  me, 
Though  thorns  be  in  my  path  concealed  ? 
World,  do  thy  worst !  God  is  my  shield  ! 

And  will  be  ever  nigh  me. 

Mary,  Queen  of  Hungary. 


THE  MARTYR'S  HYMN. 

LUNG  to  the  heedless  winds, 
Or  on  the  waters  cast. 
The  martyrs'  ashes,  watched, 
Shall  gathered  be  at  last ; 
And  from  that  scattered  dust, 

Around  us  and  abroad. 
Shall  spring  a  plenteous  seed 
Of  witnesses  for  God. 

The  Father  hath  received 

Their  latest  living  breath  ; 
And  vain  is  Satan's  boast 

Of  victory  in  their  death  ; 
Still,  still,  though  dead,  they  speak, 

And,  trumpet  tongued,  proclaim 
To  many  a  wakening  land 

The  one  availing  name. 

Martin  Luther. 


u 


R( 


ROCK  OF  AGES. 

OCK  of  ages,  cleft  for  me," 

Thoughtlessly  the  maiden  sung  ; 
Fell  the  words  unconsciously 
From  her  girlish,  gleeful  tongue  ; 
Sang  as  little  children  bing; 

Sang  as  sing  the  birds  in  June  ; 
Fell  the  words  like  light  leaves  down 
On  the  current  of  the  tune — 
"  Rock  of  ages,  cleft  for  me, 
Let  me  hide  myself  in  Thee. 

"  Let  me  hide  myself  in  Thee" — 

Felt  her  soul  no  need  to  hide — 
Sweet  the  song  as  song  could  be, 

And  siie  had  no  thought  beside  ; 
All  the  words  unheedingly 

Fell  from  lips  untouched  by  care. 
Dreaming  not  that  they  might  be 

On  some  other  lips  a  prayer — 
"  Rock  of  ages,  cleft  for  me. 
Let  me  hide  myself  in  Thee." 

"  Rock  of  ages,  cleft  for  me  " — 

'Twas  a  woman  sung  them  now. 
Pleadingly  and  prayerfully, 
Every  word  her  heart  did  know. 

(24) 


Rose  the  song  as  storm-tossed  bird 

Beats  with  weary  wing  the  air  ; 
Every  note  with  sorrow  stirred, 

Every  syllable  a  prayer — 
"Rock  of  ages  cleft  for  me, 
Let  me  hide  myself  in  Thee." 

"  Rock  of  ages,  cleft  for  me  " — 
Lips  grown  aged  sung  the  hymn 
Trustingly  and  tenderly, 
Voice  grown  weak  and  eyes  grown  dim— 
"Let  me  hide  myself  in  Thee." 

Trembling  though  the  voice  and  low, 
Ran  the  sweet  strain  peacefully, 

Like  a  river  in  its  flow  ; 
Sung  as  only  they  can  sing 

Who  life's  thorny  paths  have  pressed ; 
Sung  as  only  they  can  sing 
Who  behold  a  promised  rest — 
"  Rock  of  ages,  cleft  for  me, 
Let  me  hide  myself  in  Thee." 

"  Rock  of  ages,  cleft  for  me  "- 

Sung  above  a  coffin  lid  ; 
Underneath,  all  restfully. 

All  life's  joys  and  sorrows  hid  ; 
Nevermore,  O  storm-tossed  soul ! 

Nevermore  from  wind  or  tide, 
Nevermore  from  billow's  roll 

Wilt  thou  need  thyself  to  hide. 
Could  the  sightless,  sunken  eyes, 

Closed  beneath  the  soft  gray  hair. 
Could  the  mute  and  stiffened  lips 

Move  again  in  pleading  prayer, 
Still,  aye,  still  the  words  would  be — 
"  Let  me  hide  myself  in  Thee." 

Edward  H.  Rice. 


SOFTLY  WOO  AWAY  HER   BREATH. 

'  OFTLY  woo  away  her  breath, 
Gentle  death ! 
,Let  her  leave  thee  with  no  strife. 

Tender,  mournful,  murmuring  life. 
She  hath  seen  her  happy  day, 

She  hath  had  her  bud  and  blossom ; 
Now  she  pales  and  shrinks  away. 
Earth,  into  thy  gentle  bosom. 

She  hath  done  her  bidding  here, 

Angels  dear! 
Bear  her  perfect  soul  above, 

Seraph  of  the  skies,  sweet  love. 
Good  she  was  and  fair  in  youth  ; 

And  her  mind  was  seen  to  soar. 
And  her  heart  was  wed  to  truth  ; 

Take  her,  then,  forevermore. 

Forever — evermore. 
Bryan  Waller  Procter  {Barry  Cornwall): 


370 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


RESIGNATION. 

'HERE    is    no    flock,   however    watched  and 
tended, 
But  one  dead  lamb  is  there  ! 
There  is  no  fireside  howsoe'er  defended. 
But  has  one  vacant  chair  ! 

The  air  is  full  of  farewells  to  the  dying; 

And  mournings  for  the  dead ; 
The  heart  of  Rachel,  for  her  children  crying, 

Will  n"ot  be  comforted  ! 

Let  us  be  patient !    These  severe  afflictions 

Not  from  the  ground  arise. 
But  oftentimes  celestial  benedictions 

Assume  this  dark  disguise. 

We  see  but  dimly  through  the  mists  and  vapors  ; 

Amid  these  earthly  damps 
What  seem  to  us  but  sad,  funereal  tapers 

May  be  heaven's  distant  lamps. 

There  is  no  death  !    What  seems  so  is  transition ; 

This  life  of  mortal  breath 
Is  but  a  suburb  of  the  life  elysian, 
*Whose  portal  we  call  death. 

She  is  not  dead — the  child  of  our  affection — 

But  gone  unto  that  school 
Where  she  no  longer  needs  our  poor  protection, 

And  Christ  himself  doth  rule. 

In  that  great  cloister's  stillness  aud  seclusion, 

By  guardian  angels  led. 
Safe  from  temptation,  safe  from  sin's  pollution, 

She  lives,  whom  we  call  dead. 

Day  after  day  we  think  what  she  is  doing 

In  those  bright  realms  of  air; 
Year  after  year,  her  tender  steps  pursuing, 

Behold  her  grown  more  fair. 

Thus  do  we  walk  with  her,  and  keep  unbroken 

The  bond  which  nature  gives, 
Thinking  that  our  remembrance,  though  unspoken. 

May  reach  her  where  she  lives. 

Not  as  a  child  shall  we  again  behold  her  ; 

For  when  with  raptures  wiM 
In  our  embraces  we  again  enfold  her. 

She  will  not  be  a  child  ; 

But  a  fair  maiden,  in  her  Father's  mansion, 

Clothed  with  celestial  grace  ; 
And  beautiful  with  all  the  soul's  expansion 

Shall  we  behold  her  face. 

And  though  at  times,  impetuous  with  emotion 

And  anguish  long  suppressed. 
The  swelling  heart  heaves  moaning  like  the  ocean 

That  cannot  be  at  rest — 


We  will  be  patient,  and  assuage  the  feeling 

We  may  not  wholly  stay  ; 
By  silence  sanctifying,  not  concealing. 

The  grief  that  must  have  way. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


CHRIST'S  PRESENCE  IN  THE  HOUSE. 


EAR  Friend,  whose  presence  in  the  house. 
Whose  gracious  word  benign. 
Could  once  at  Cana's  wedding  feast 
Turn  water  into  wine  : 

Come  visit  us,  and  when  dull  work 

Grows  weary,  line  on  line, 
Revive  our  souls,  and  make  us  see 

Life's  water  glow  as  wine. 

Gay  mirth  shall  deepen  into  joy. 
Earth's  hopes  shall  grow  divine 

When  Jesus  visits  us,  to  turn 
Life's  waters  into  wine. 

The  social  talk,  the  evening  fire, 
The  homely  household  shrine. 

Shall  glow  with  angel's  visits  when 
The  Lord  pours  out  the  wine. 

For  when  self  seeking  turns  to  love, 
Which  knows  not  mine  and  thine, 

The  miracle  is  wrought. 
The  water  changed  to  wine. 

James  Freeman  Clarke, 


THERE  IS  NO  DEATH. 

'HERE  is  no  death  !    The  stars  go  down 
To  rise  upon  some  fairer  shore  : 
And  bright  in  hraven's  jewelled  crown 
"^  They  shine  forevermore. 

There  is  no  death  !  The  dust  we  tread 

Shall  change  beneath  the  summer  showers 

To  golden  grain  or  mellowed  fruit, 
Or  rainbow-tinted  flowers. 

The  granite  rocks  disorganize. 

And  feed  the  hungry  moss  they  bear  ; 

The  forest  leaves  drink  daily  life. 
From  out  the  viewless  air. 

There  is  no  death  !    The  leaves  may  fall, 
And  flowers  may  fade  and  pass  away ; 

They  only  wait  through  wintry  hours. 
The  coming  of  the  May. 

There  is  no  death  !    An  angel  form 
Walks  o'er  the  earth  with  silent  tread  ; 

He  bears  our  best  loved  things  away ; 
And  then  we  call  them.  "  dead." 


RELIGIOUS   LIFE. 


J71 


He  leaves  our  hearts  all  desolate, 
He  plucks  our  fairest,  sweetest  flowers  , 

Transplanted  into  bliss,  they  now 
Adorn  immortal  bowers. 

The  bird-like  voice,  whose  joyous  tones, 
Made  glad  these  scenes  of  sin  and  strife, 

Sings  now  an  everlasting  song, 
Around  the  tree  of  life. 

Where'er  He  sees  a  smile  too  bright, 
Or  heart  too  pure  for  taint  and  vice, 

He  bears  it  to  that  world  of  light, 
To  dwell  in  paradise. 

Born  unto  that  undying  life. 

They  leave  us  but  to  come  again  ; 
With  joy  we  welcome  them  the  same — 

Except  their  sin  and  pain.- 

And  ever  near  us,  though  unseen, 

The  dear  immortal  spirits  tread ; 
For  all  the  boundless  universe 

Is  life — there  are  no  dead. 

Lord  Lvtton. 


llJ 


THE  SABBATH  MORNING. 

ITH  silent  awe  I  hail  the  sacred  mom. 
That  slowly  wakes  while  all  the  fields  are 

still ! 
A  soothing  calm  on  every  breeze  is  borne ; 

A  graver  murmur  gurgles  from  the  rill ; 

And  echo  answers  softer  from  the  hill ; 

And  sweeter  sings  the  linnet  from  the  thorn  : 

The  skylark  warbles  in  a  tone  less  shrill. 

Hail,  light  serene  !  hail,  sacred  Sabbath  mom  ! 

The  rooks  float  silent  by  in  airy  drove  ; 

The  sun  a  placid  yellow  lustre  throws  ; 

The  gales  that  lately  sighed  along  the  grove 

Have  hushed  their  downy  wings  in  dead  repose  ; 

The  hovering  rack  of  clouds  forgets  to  move — 

So  smiled  the  day  when  the  first  mom  arose  ! 

John  Levden. 

THE  DROWNING  SINGER. 

HE  Sabbath  day  was  ending  in  a  village  by  the 
sea, 
The  uttered  benediction  touched  the  people 
tenderly. 
And  they  rose  to  face  the  sunset  in  the  glowing,  lighted 

west, 
And  then  hastened  to  their  dwellings  for  God's  blessed 
boon  of  rest. 

But  they  looked  across  the  waters,  and  a  storm  was 

raging  there ; 
A  fierce  spirit  moved  above  them — the  wild  spirit  of 

the  air — 
And  it  lashed  and  shook  and  tore  them,  till  they 

thundered,  groaned  and  boomed. 
And  alas  for  any  vessel  in  their  yawning  gulfs  entombed ! 


Very  anxious  were  the  people  on  that  rocky  coast  of 
Wales, 

Lest  the  dawns  of  coming  morrows  should  be  telling 
awful  tales. 

When  the  sea  had  spent  its  passion,  and  should  cast 
upon  the  shore 

Bits  of  wreck  and  swollen  victims,  as  it  had  done  here- 
tofore. 

With  the  rough  winds  blowing  round  her,  a  brave 

woman  strained  her  eyes. 
And  she  saw  along  the  billows  a  large  vessel  fall  and 

rise. 
Oh  !  it  did  not  need  a  prophet  to  tell  what  the  end  must 

be, 
For  no  ship  could  ride  in  safety-  near  that  shore  on  such 

a  sea. 

Then  the  pitying  f>eople  hurried  from  their  homes  and 

thronged  the  beach. 
Oh  !  for  power  to  cross  the  waters  and  the  perishing  to 

reach ! 
Helpless  hands  were  wrung  for  sorrow,  tender  hearts 

grew  cold  with  dread. 
And  the  ship,  urged  by  the  tempest,  to  the  fatal  rock 

shore  sped. 

"She  has  parted  in  the  middle  !     Oh,  the  half  of  her 

goes  down ! 
God  have  mercy  !     Is  heaven  far  to  seek  for  those  who 

drown?" 
Lo !  when  next  the  white,  shocked  faces  looked  with 

terror  on  the  sea. 
Only  one  last  clinging  figure  on  the  spar  was  seen  to 

be. 

Nearer  the  trembling  watchers  came  the  wreck,  tossed 

by  the  wave. 
And  the  man  still  clung  and  floated,  though  no  power 

on  earth  could  save. 
"  Could  we  send  him  a  short  message  ?    Here's  a 

trumpet.     Shout  away ! ' ' 
"Twas  the  preacher's  hand  that  took  it,  and  he  wondered 

what  to  say. 

Any  memory  of  his  sermon?     Firstly?     Secondly? 

Ah,  no! 
There  was  but  one  thing  to  utter  in  the  awful  hour  of 

woe; 
So  he  shouted  through  the  tmmpet,  "  Look  to  Jesus  I 

Can  you  hear  ? ' ' 
And  "Aye,  aye,  sir  !"  rang  the  answer  o'er  the  waters'' 

loud  and  clear. 

Then  they  listened.     He  is  singing,  ''Jesus  lover  of 

my  souir* 
And  the  winds  brought  back  the  echo,   "  While  the 

nearer  waters  roll;^'' 
Strange,  indeed,  it  was  to  hear  him,  "  Till  the  storm 

of  life  is  past,'' 
Singing  bravely  from  the  waters,    "Oh,  receive  my 

soul  at  last  C 


372 


CKuw-rs-  JEWELS. 


He  could  have  no  other  refuge  !     '■^  Hangs  my  helpless 

soul  on  thee, 
Leave,  ah,  leave  me  not! ' '    The  singer  dropped  at  last 

into  the  sea, 
And  the  watchers,  looking  homeward  through  their 

eyes  with  tears  made  dim, 

Said,  "  He  passed  to  be  with  Jesus  in  the  singing  of 

that  hymn." 

Marianne  Farningham. 


Q 


ABIDE  WITH  ME. 

BIDE  with  me  !    Fast  falls  the  eventide, 
The  darkness  deepens — Lord,  with  me  abide ! 
When  other  helpers  fail,  and  comforts  flee. 
Help  of  the  helpless,  O  abide  with  me  ! 


Swift  to  its  close  ebbs  out  life's  little  day  ; 
Earth's  joys  grow  dim,  its  glories  pass  away ; 
Change  and  decay  in  all  around  I  see  ; 

0  Thou,  who  changest  not,  abide  with  me  ! 

1  need  Thy  presence  every  passing  hour  ; 

What  but  Thy  grace  can  foil  the  tempter's  power ! 
W^ho,  like  Thyself,  my  guide  and  stay  can  be  ? 
Through  cloud  and  sunshine,  Lord,  abide  with  me  ! 

I  fear  no  foe,  with  Thee  at  hand  to  bless  ; 
Ills  have  no  weight,  and  tears  no  bitterness  ; 
Where  is  death's  sting  ?  where,  grave  thy  victory-  ? 
I  triumph  still,  if  Thou  abide  with  me. 

Hold  thou  Thy  cross  before  my  closing  eyes ; 
Shine  through  the  gloom  and  point  me  to  the  skies  ; 
Heaven's  morning  breaks,  and  earth's  vain  shadows 

flee; 
In  life,  in  death,  O  Lord,  abide  with  me  ! 

Henry  F.  Lyte. 


FAITH  AND  HOPE. 

DON'T  be  sorrowful,  darling  ! 
Now,  don't  be  sorrowful,  pray  ; 
For,  taking  the  year  togetlier,  my  dear, 
There  isn't  more  night  than  day. 
It's  rainy  weather,  my  loved  one  ; 
Time's  wheels  they  heavily  run  ; 
But  taking  the  year  together,  my  dear, 
There  isn't  more  cloud  than  sun. 

We're  old  ,olks  now,  companion — 

Our  heads  they  are  growing  gray ; 
But  taking  the  year  all  round,  my  dear, 

You  will  alwaj's  find  the  May. 
We've  had  our  May,  my  darling. 

And  our  roses,  long  ago  ; 
And  the  time  of  the  year  is  come,  my  dear, 

For  the  long  dark  nights,  and  the  snow. 

Btit  God  is  God,  my  faithful, 
Gf  night  as  well  as  of  day  ; 


And  we  feel  and  know  that  we  can  go 

Wherever  He  leads  the  way. 
Ay,  God  of  night,  my  darling  ! 

Of  the  night  of  death  so  grim  ; 
And  the  gate  that  from  life  leads  out,  good  wife, 

Is  tho  gate  that  leads  to  Him. 

Rembrandt  Peale. 


NOW  AND  AFTERWARDS. 

"Two  hands  upon  the  breast,  and  labor  is  past." — Russian 
Proverb. 

Vj    'WO  hands  upon  the  breast, 

%.(^\        And  labor's  done  ; 

\^^     Two  pale  feet  crossed  in  rest — 
"f  The  race  is  won  ; 

Two  eyes  with  coin-weights  shut, 

And  all  tears  cease ; 
Two  lips  where  grief  is  mute, 

Anger  at  peace;" 
So  pray  we  oftentimes,  mourning  our  lot ; 
God  in  his  kindness  answereth  not. 

"  Two  hands  to  work  addrest 

Aye  for  His  praise ; 
Two  feet  that  never  rest 

Walking  His  ways ; 
Two  eyes  that  look  above 

Through  all  their  tears  ; 
Two  lips  still  breathing  love,  , 

Not  wrath,  nor  fears  ; " 
So  pray  we  afterwards,  low  on  our  knees  ; 
Pardon  those  erring  prayers  !    Father,  hear  these  \ 
Dinah  Maria  Mulock  Craik. 


0 


THE  ANGELS'  WHISPER 

BABY  was  sleeping ; 

Its  mother  was  weeping  ; 
For  her  husband  was  far  on  the  wild  raging 
sea; 
And  the  tempest  was  swelling 
Round  the  fisherman's  dwelling ; 
And  she  cried,  "  Dermot,  darling,  O  come  back  to  me  !" 

Her  beads  while  she  numbered. 

The  baby  still  slumbered. 
And  smiled  in  her  face  as  she  bended  her  knee  ; 
"O,  blest  be  that  warning, 

My  child,  thy  sleep  adorning, 
For  I  know  that  the  angels  are  whispering  to  thee. 

"And  while  they  are  keeping 

Bright  watch  o'er  thy  sleeping, 
O,  pray  to  them  softly,  my  baby,  with  me  ! 

And  say  thou  woulds't  rather 

They'd  watch  o'er  thy  father  ! 
For  I  know  that  the  angels  are  whispering  to  thee." 

The  dawn  of  the  morning 
Saw  Dermot  returning. 


RELIGIOUS  LIFE. 


373 


And  the  wife  wept  with  joy  her  babe's  father  to  see  ; 
And  closely  caressing 
Her  child  with  a  blessing, 
Said,    "I  knew  that  the  angels  were  whispering  to 
thee." 

Samuel  Lover. 


HYMN  OF  THE  HEBREW  MAID. 

HEN  Israel,  of  the  Lord  beloved, 

Out  from  the  land  of  bondage  came, 
Her  father's  God  before  her  moved, 
An  awful  guide  in  smoke  and  flame. 
By  day,  along  the  astonished  lands, 

The  cloudy  pillar  glided  slow  ; 
By  night,  Arabia's  crimsoned  sands 
Returned  the  fiery  column's  glow. 

There  rose  the  choral  hymn  of  praise, 

And  trump  and  timbrel  answered  keen  ; 
And  Zion's  daughters  poured  their  lays. 

With  priest's  and  warrior's  voice  between. 
No  portents  now  our  foes  amaze — 

Forsaken  Israel  wanders  lone  ; 
Our  fathers  would  not  know  Thy  ways, 

And  Thou  hast  left  them  to  their  own. 

But,  present  still,  though  now  unseen. 

When  brightly  shines  the  prosperous  day, 
Be  thoughts  of  Thee  a  cloudy  screen, 

To  temper  the  deceitful  ray. 
And  O,  when  stoops  on  Judah's  path 

In  shade  and  storm  the  frequent  night. 
Be  Thou,  long-suffering,  slow  to  wrath 

A  burning  and  a  shining  light ! 

Our  harps  we  left  by  Babel's  streams — 

The  tyrant's  jest,  the  Gentile's  scorn; 
No  censer  round  our  altar  beams. 

And  mute  are  timbrel,  trump  and  horn. 
iJut  Thou  hast  said,  The  blood  of  goats, 

The  flesh  of  rams,  I  will  not  prize — 
A  contrite  heart,  and  humble  thoughts. 

Are  mine  accepted  sacrifice. 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 


NEARER  HOME. 

TBJS  Beautiful  poem,  which  has  comforted  so  many  Christian 
heat.s,  n  jll  be  prized,  not  only  for  its  own  sake,  but  as  a  fitting 
memorial  to  the  gifted  writer. 

NE  sweetly  solemn  thought 
Comes  to  me  o'er  and  o'er ; 
I'm  nearer  my  home  to-day 
Than  I  ever  have  been  before  ; 

Nearer  my  Father's  house. 
Where  the  many  mansions  be  ; 

Nearer  the  great  white  throne. 
Nearer  the  crystal  sea  ; 


Nearer  the  bound  of  life, 
Where  we  lay  our  burdens  down  ; 

Nearer  leaving  the  cross, 
Nearer  gaining  the  crown  ! 

But  the  waves  of  that  silent  sea 

Roll  dark  before  my  sight. 
That  brightly  the  other  side 

Break  on  a  shore  of  light 

Oh,  if  my  mortal  feet 

Have  almost  gained  the  brink ; 

If  it  be  I  am  nearer  home 
Even  to-day  than  I  think  ; 

Father,  perfect  my  tnist ; 

Let  my  spirit  feel  in  death. 
That  her  feet  are  firmly  set 
On  the  Rock  of  a  living  faith! 

Phebe  Car  v. 

THE  DYING  CHRISTIAN  TO  HIS  SOUL 

This  ode  was  composed  at  the  request  of  Steele,  who  wrote* 
"  This  is  to  desire  of  you  that  you  would  please  to  make  an  ode  as 
of  a  cheerful,  dying  spirit;  that  is  to  say,  the  Emperor  Adrian's 
dying  address  to  his  soul  put  into  two  or  three  stanzas  for  music  ' 
Pope  replied  with  the  three  stanzas  below,  and  says  to  Steele  in  a 
letter :  "You  have  it,  as  Cowley  calls  it,  warm  from  the  brain.  It 
came  to  me  the  first  moment  I  waked  this  morning." 

^  ITAL  spark  of  heavenly  flame, 

Quit,  oh,  quit  this  mortal  frame  ! 
Trembling,  hoping,  lingering,  flying. 
Oh,  the  pain,  the  bliss  of  dying ! 

Cease,  fond  nature,  cease  thy  strife. 

And  let  me  languish  into  life. 

Hark  !  they  whisper ;  angels  say. 

Sister  spirit,  come  away. 

What  is  this  absorbs  me  quite, 

Steals  my  senses,  shuts  my  sight, 
Drowns  my  spirits,  draws  my  breath? 
Tell  me,  my  soul,  can  this  be  death  ? 

The  world  recedes  ;  it  disappears  ; 
Heaven  opens  on  my  eyes  ;  my  ears 

With  sounds  seraphic  ring  : 
Lend,  lend  your  wings  !  I  mount !  I  flyl 
Oh,  grave  !  where  is  thy  victory-? 

Oh,  death  !  where  is  thy  sting  ? 

Alexander  Pope. 


WATCHMAN.  WHAT  OF  THE  NIGHT? 

AY,  watchman,  what  of  the  night? 
Do  the  dews  of  the  morning  fall  ? 
Have  the  orient  skies  a  border  of  light, 
Like  the  fringe  of  a  funeral  pall? 

"  The  night  is  fast  waning  on  high, 

And  soon  shall  the  darkness  flee. 
And  the  mom  shall  spread  o'er  the  blushing  sky, 

And  bright  shall  its  glories  be." 


374 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


But,  watchman,  what  of  the  night, 

When  sorrow  and  pain  are  mine, 
And  the  pleasures  of  Hfe,  so  sweet  and  bright, 

No  longer  around  me  shine  ? 

"That  night  of  sorrow  thy  soul 

May  surely  prepare  to  meet. 
But  away  shall  the  clouds  of  thy  heaviness  roll, 

And  the  morning  of  joy  be  sweet." 

But,  watchman,  what  of  the  night, 

When  the  arrow  of  death  is  sped. 
And  the  grave,  which  no  glimmering  star  can  light. 

Shall  be  my  sleeping  bed  ? 

"That  night  is  near,  and  the  cheerless  tomb 

Shall  keep  thy  body  in  store, 
Till  the  morn  of  eternity  rise  on  the  gloom. 

And  night  shall  be  no  more  ! " 


THE  CHANGED  CROSS. 

'  T  was  a  time  of  sadness,  and  my  heart. 

Although  it  knew  and  loved  the  better  part, 
Ftlt  wearied  with  the  conflict  and  the  strife, 
And  all  the  needful  discipline  of  life. 

And  while  I  thought  on  these,  as  given  to  me. 
My  trial-tests  of  faith  and  love  to  be, 
It  seemed  as  if  I  never  could  be  sure 
That  faithful  to  the  end  I  should  endure. 

And  thus,  no  longer  trusting  to  his  might 
Who  says,  "We  walk  by  failh  and  not  by  sight," 
Doubting,  and  almost  yielding  to  despair. 
The  thought  arose,  "My  cross  I  cannot  bear. 

"  Far  heavier  its  weight  must  surely  be 
Than  tbose  of  others  which  I  daily  see  ; 
Oh  1  if  I  might  another  burden  choose, 
Methinks  I  should  not  fear  my  crown  to  lose." 

A  solemn  silence  reigned  on  all  around, 
E'en  nature's  voices  uttered  not  a  sound; 
The  evening  shadows  seemed  of  peace  to  tell, 
And  sleep  upon  my  weary  spirit  fell. 

A  moment's  pause — and  then  a  heavenly  light 
Beamed  full  upon  my  wondering,  raptured  sight ; 
Angels  on  silvery  wings  seemed  everywhere, 
And  angels'  music  thrilled  the  balmy  air. 

Then  One,  more  fair  than  all  the  rest  to  see. 
One  to  whom  all  the  others  bowed  the  knee. 
Came  gently  to  me,  as  I  trembling  lay, 
And,  "  Follow  me,"  he  said  ;  "  I  am  the  Way." 

Then,  speaking  thus,  he  led  me  far  above, 
And  there,  beneath  a  canopy  of  love. 
Crosses  of  divers  shape  and  size  were  seen, 
Larger  and  smaller  than  my  own  had  been. 


And  one  there  was,  most  beauteous  to  behold — 
A  little  one,  with  jewels  set  in  gold. 
"Ah  I  this,"  methought,  "  I  can  with  comfort  wear, 
For  it  will  be  an  easy  one  to  bear." 

And  so  the  little  cross  I  quickly  took, 
But  all  at  once  my  frame  beneath  it  shook  ; 
The  sparkling  jewels,  fair  were  they  to  see, 
But  far  too  heavy  was  their  weight  for  me. 

"This  may  not  be,"  I  cried,  and  looked  again, 
To  see  if  there  was  any  nere  could  ease  my  pain  ; 
But,  one  by  one,  I  passed  them  slowly  by. 
Till  on  a  lovely  one  I  cast  my  eye. 

Fair  flowers  around  its  sculptured  form  entwined, 
And  grace  and  beauty  seemed  in  it  combined. 
Wondering,  I  gazed —  and  still  I  wondered  more, 
To  think  so  many  should  have  passed  it  o'er. 

But  oh  !  that  form  so  beautiful  to  see 
Soon  made  its  hidden  sorrows  known  to  me  ; 
Thorns  lay  beneath  those  flowers  and  colors  fair ; 
Sorrowing,  I  said,  "This  cross  I  may  not  bear." 

And  so  it  was  with  each  and  all  around  — 

Not  one  to  suit  my  need  could  there  be  found  ; 

Weeping,  I  laid  each  heavy  burden  down 

As  my  Guide  gently  said,  "No  cross — no  crown." 

At  length  to  him  I  raised  my  saddened  heart ; 
He  knew  its  sorrows,  bade  its  doubts  depart ; 
" Be  not  afraid,"  he  said,  "but  trust  in  me  ; 
My  perfect  love  shall  now  be  shown  t&  tliee." 

(And  thtn,  with  lightened  eyes  and  willing  feel,  , 

Again  I  turned,  my  earthly  cross  to  meet ; 
With  forward  footsteps,  turning  not  aside. 
For  fear  some  hidden  evil  mij^lit  betide  ; 

And  there — in  the  prepared,  appointed  way. 
Listening  to  hear,  and  ready  to  obey — 
A  cross  I  quickly  found  of  plainest  form. 
With  only  words  of  love  inscribed  thereon. 

With  thankfulness  I  raised  it  from  the  rest, 
And  joyfully  acknbwledged  it  the  best — 
The  only  one,  of  all  the  many  there, 
That  I  could  feel  was  good  for  me  to  bear. 

And,  while  I  thus  my  chosen  one  confessed, 
I  saw  a  heavenly  brightness  on  it  rest ; 
And  as  I  bent,  my  burden  to  sustain, 
I  recognized  my  own  old  cross  again. 

But  oh  I  how  different  did  it  seem  to  be, 
Now  I  had  learned  its  preciousness  to  see  ! 
No  longer  could  I  unbelieving  say, 
"  Perhaps  another  is  a  better  way." 

Ah,  no  !  henceforth  my  own  desire  shall  be, 

That  He  who  knows  me  best  should  choose  for  me  • 

And  so,  whate'er  His  love  sees  good  to  send, 

I'll  trust  it's  best — because  He  knows  the  end. 

Mrs.  Charles  Hobart. 


RELIGIOUS   LIFE. 


375 


THE  MINISTRY  OF  ANGELS. 

aND  is  there  care  in  heaven  ?    And  is  there  love 
In  heavenly  spirits  to  these  creatures  base, 
That  may  compassion  of  their  evils  move  ? 
There  is  : — else  much  more  wretched  were 
the  case 
Of  men  than  beasts :  but  O  the  exceeding  grace 
Of  Highest  God  !  that  loves  His  creatures  so, 
And  all  His  works  with  mercy  doth  embrace, 
That  blessM  angels  He  sends  to  and  fro, 
To  serve  to  wicked  men,  to  serve  his  wicked  foe  1 

How  oft  do  they  their  silver  bowers  leave, 
To  come  to  succor  us  that  succor  want ! 
How  oft  do  they  with  golden  pinions  cleave 
The  flitting  skies,  like  flying  pursuivant. 
Against  foul  fiends  to  aid  us  militant ! 
They  for  us^ight,  they  watch,  and  duly  ward. 
And  their  bright  squadrons  round  about  us  plant ; 
And  all  for  love,  and  nothing  for  reward ; 

O,  why  should  heavenly  God  to  men  have  such  regard! 

Edmund  Spenser. 

THE  DYING  SAVIOUR. 


SACRED  Head,  now  wounded. 

With  grief  and  shame  weighed  down  ; 
Now  scornfully  surrounded 
With  thorns.  Thy  only  crown  ; 
O  sacred  Head,  what  glory, 

What  bliss,  till  now  was  Thine ! 
Yet,  though  despised  and  gory, 
I  joy  to  call  Thee  mine. 

O  noblest  brow  and  dearest, 

In  other  days  the  world 
All  feared  when  Thou  appearedst : 

What  shame  on  Thee  is  hurled  ! 
How  art  Thou  pale  with  anguish, 

With  sore  abuse  and  scorn  ! 
How  does  that  visage  languish 

Which  once  was  bright  as  morn  ! 

What  language  shall  I  borrow, 

To  thank  Thee,  dearest  Friend, 
For  this  Thy  dying  sorrow. 

Thy  pity  without  end  I 
O,  make  me  Thine  forever, 

And  should  I  fainting  be. 
Lord,  let  me  never,  never. 

Outlive  my  love  to  Thee. 

If  I,  a  wretch,  should  leave  Thee, 

O  Jesus,  leave  not  me  ! 
In  faith  may  I  receive  Thee, 

When  death  shall  set  me  free. 
When  strength  and  comfort  languish, 

And  I  must  hence  depart, 
Release  me  then  from  anguish, 

By  Thine  own  wounded  heart. 


Be  near  when  I  am  dying, 

O,  show  Thy  cross  to  me ! 
And  for  my  succor  flying, 

Come,  Lord,  to  set  me  free. 
These  eyes  new  faith  receiving, 

From  Jesus  shall  not  move  ; 
For  he  who  dies  believing 

Dies  safely — through  Thy  love. 

Paul  Gerhardt. 


FOR  LOVE'S  SAKE. 

One  of  the  most  celebrated,  and  perhaps  the  finest,  of  all  reli- 
gious edifices  in  the  world,  is  the  "  Moslem  Palace  "  called  Taj  Ma- 
hal. It  was  erected  during  the  17th  century,  by  the  Emperor 
Shah  Jehan  as  a  mausoleum  for  his  favorite  queen.  The  materia! 
is  white  marble,  and  the  cost  is  said  to  have  been  over  fifteen 
million  dollars.  The  tombs  of  the  Emperor  and  Queen  are  ia  the 
central  hall. 

Y  ]C  OU  have  read  of  the  Moslem  palace — 
The  marvelous  fane  that  stands 
On  the  banks  of  the  distant  Jumna, 
The  wonder  of  all  the  lands  ; 

You  have  read  of  its  marble  splendors, 

Its  carvings  of  rare  device. 
Its  domes  and  its  towers  that  glisten 

Like  visions  of  paradise. 

You  have  listened  as  one  has  told  you 

Of  its  pinnacles  snowy-fair — 
So  pure  that  they  seemed  suspended 

Like  clouds  in  the  crystal  air  ; 

Of  the  flow  of  its  fountains  falling 

As  softly  as  mourners'  tears  ; 
Of  the  lily  and  rose  kept  blooming 

For  over  two  hundred  years ; 

Of  the  friezes  of  frost-like  beauty. 
The  jewels  that  crust  the  wall. 

The  carvings  that  crown  the  archway. 
The  mnermost  shrine  of  all — 

Where  lies  in  her  sculptured  coffin, 
(Whose  chiselings  mortal  man 

Hath  never  excelled,)  the  dearest 
Of  the  loves  of  the  Shah  Jehiln. 

They  read  you  the  shining  legends 

Whose  letters  are  set  in  gems, 
On  the  walls  of  the  sacred  chamber 

That  sparkle  like  diadems. 

And  they  tell  you  these  letters,  gleamin;; 

Wherever  the  eye  may  look, 
Are  words  of  the  Moslem  prophet. 

Are  texts  from  his  holy  book. 

And  still  as  you  heard,  you  questioned 
Right  wonderingiy,  as  you  must, 
"Why  rear  such  a  palace,  only 
To  shelter  a  woman's  dust?" 


376 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


Why  rear  it  ? — the  Shah  had  promised 

His  beautiful  Nourmahal 
To  do  it  because  lie  loved  her, 

He  loved  her — and  that  was  all ! 

So  minaret,  wall,  and  column, 

And  tower  and  dome  above, 
All  tell  of  a  sacred  promise. 

All  utter  one  accent — love. 

'Vou  know  of  another  temple, 
A  grander  than  Hindoo  shrine. 

The  splendor  of  whose  perfections 
Is  mystical,  strange,  divine. 

So  vast  is  its  scale  proportioned, 

So  lofty  its  turrets  rise. 
That  the  pile  in  its  finished  glory 

Will  reach  to  the  very  skies. 

The  lapse  of  the  silent  Kedron, 

The  rosts  of  Sharon  fair, 
Gethsemane's  sacred  olives 

And  cedars  are  round  it  there. 

And  graved  on  its  walls  and  pillars, 

And  cut  in  its  crystal  stone. 
Are  the  words  of  our  Prophet,  sweeter 

Than  Islam's  hath  ever  known — 

Texts  culled  from  the  holy  Gospel, 

That  comfort,  refresh,  sustain, 
And  shine  with  a  rarer  lustre 

Than  the  gems  of  the  Hindoo  fane. 

The  plan  of  the  temple,  only 

Its  Architect  understands ; 
And  yet  He  accepts — (Oh,  wonder !) 

The  helping  of  human  hands  ! 

And  so,  for  the  work's  progression, 
He  is  willing  that  great  and  small 

Should  bring  Him  their  bits  of  carving, 
So  needed,  to  fill  the  wall. 

Not  one  does  the  Master-Builder 
Disdainfully  cast  away :  ' 

Why,  even  He  takes  the  chippings. 
We  women  have  brought  to-day  ! 

Oh,  not  to  the  dead — to  the  living — 

We  rear  on  the  earth  He  trod, 
This  fane  to  His  lasting  glory. 

This  church  to  the  Christ  of  God  ! 

Why  labor  and  strive  ?  We  have  promised 

(And  dare  we  the  vow  recall  ?) 
To  do  it  because  we  love  Him, 

We  love  Him — and  that  is  all ! 

For  over  the  Church's  portal, 

Each  pillar  and  arch  above, 
The  Master  has  set  one  signet. 

And  graven  one  watchword — love. 

Margaret  J.  Preston. 


DIFFERENT  MINDS. 

■  OME  murmur  when  their  sky  is  clear 
And  wholly  bright  to  view. 
If  one  small  speck  of  dark  apf)ear 

In  their  great  heaven  of  blue  ; 
And  some  with  thankful  love  are  filled 

If  but  one  streak  of  light, 
One  ray  of  God's  good  mercy,  gild 
The  darkness  of  their  night. 

In  palaces  are  hearts  that  ask, 

In  discontent  and  pride, 
Why  life  is  such  a  dreary  task. 

And  all  good  things  denied, 
And  hearts  in  poorest  huts  admire 

How  love  has  in  their  aid 
(Love  that  not  ever  seems  to  tire ) 

Such  rich  provision  made. 

Richard  Chenevix  Trench. 


A  DREAM  OF  THE  UNIVERSE. 

NTO  the  great  vestibule  of  heaven,  God  called  up 
a  man  from  dreams,  saying,  "Come  thou  hither, 
and  see  the  glory  of  my  house."  And,  to  the 
servants  who  stood  around  His  throne.  He  said. 
"Take  him,  and  undress  him  from  his  robes  of  flesh ; 
cleanse  his  vision,  and  put  a  new  breath  into  his  nos- 
trils ;  only  touch  not  with  any  change  his  human  heart 
— the  heart  that  weeps  and  trembles." 

It  was  done  ;  and,  with  a  mighty  angel  for  his  guide,  * 
the  man  stood  ready  for  his  infinite  voyage  ;  and  from 
the  terraces  of  heaven,  without  sound  or  farewell,  at 
once  they  wheeled  away  into  endless  space.  Some- 
times, with  solemn  flight  of  angel  wings,  they  fled 
through  Saharas  of  (Jarkness — through  wildernesses  of 
death,  that  divided  the  world  of  life  ;  sometimes  they 
swept  over  frontiers  that  were  quickening  under  the 
prophetic  motions  from  God. 

Then,  from  a  distance  that  is  counted  only  in  heaven, 
light  dawned  for  a  time  through  a  sleepy  film.;  by  un- 
utterable pace  the  light  swept  to  them  ;  they  by  unut- 
terable pace  to  the  light.  In  a  moment,  the  rushing  of 
planets  was  upon  them  ;  in  a  moment,  the  blazing  of 
suns  was  around  them. 

Then  came  eternities  of  twilight,  that  revealed,  but 
were  not  revealed.  On  the  right  hand  and  on  the  left,  ^ 
towered  mighty  constellations,  that  by  self-repetition' 
and  answers  from  afar,  that  by  counter-positions,  built 
up  triumphal  gates,  whose  architraves,  whose  arch- 
ways—horizontal, upright — rested,  rose — at  altitudes 
by  spans  that  seemed  ghostly  from  infinitude.  With- 
out measure  were  the  architraves,  past  number  were 
the  archways,  be5'^ond  memory  the  gates. 

Within  were  stairs  that  scaled  the  eternities  below ; 
above  was  below — below  was  above,  to  the  man 
stripped  of  gravitating  body  ;  depth  was  swallowed  up 
in  height  insurmountable  ;  height  was  swallowed  up  in 


RELIGIOUS   LIFE. 


377 


depth  tinfathomable.  Suddenly,  as  thus  they  rode 
from  infinite  to  infinite  ;  suddenly,  as  thus  they  tilted 
over  abysmal  worlds,  a  mighty  cry  arose  that  systems 
more  mysterious,  that  worlds  more  billowy,  other 
heights  and  other  depths,  were  coming — were  Hearing 
— were  at  hand. 

Then  the  man  sighed,  and  stopped,  and  shuddered, 
and  wept.  His  overladen  heart  uttered  itself  in  tears  ; 
and  he  said,  "Angel,  I  will  go  no  farther ;  for  the  spirit 
of  man  acheth  with  this  infinity.  Insufferable  is  the 
glory  of  God.  Let  me  lie  down  in  the  grave,  and  hide 
me  from  the  persecutions  of  the  Infinite  ;  for  end,  I  see, 
there  is  none." 

And  from  all  the  listening  stars  that  shone  around, 
issued  a  choral  cry,  "The  man  speaks  truly ;  end  there 
is  none  that  ever  yet  we  heard  of."  "End  is  there 
none?"  the  angel  solemnly  demanded:  "Is  there  in- 
deed no  end,  and  is  this  the  sorrow  that  kills  you?" 
But  no  voice  answered  that  he  might  answer  himself. 
Then  the  angel  threw  up  his  glorious  hands  toward  the 
heaven  of  heavens,  saying,  "End is  there  none  to  the 
universe  of  God  !  Lo,  also  there  is  no  beginning  ! " 

Jean  Paul  Richter. 

THE  HOUR  OF  DEATH. 

e  EAVES  have  their  time  to  fall. 
And  flowers  to  wither  at  the  north  wind's 
breath. 
And  stars  to  set — but  all. 
Thou  hast  all  seasons  for  thine  own,  oh  death ! 

Day  is  for  mortal  care, 
Eve  for  glad  meetings  round  the  joyous  hearth. 

Night  for  the  dreams  of  sleep,  the  voice  of  prayer — 
But  all  for  thee,  thou  mightiest  of  the  earth. 

The  banquet  hath  its  hour, 
Its  feverish  hour  of  mirth,  and  song,  and  wine; 

There  comes  a  day  for  griefs  o'erwhelming  power, 
A  time  for  softer  tears — but  all  are  thine. 

Youth  and  the  opening  rose 
May  look  like  things  too  glorious  for  decay, 

And  smile  at  thee — but  thou  art  not  of  those 
That  wait  the  ripened  bloom  to  seize  their  prey. 

Leaves  have  their  time  to  fall, 
And  flowers  to  wither  at  the  north  wind's  breath. 

And  stars  to  set —  but  all. 
Thou  hast  all  seasons  for  thine  own,  oh  death  ! 

We  know  when  moons  shall  wane. 
When  summer-birds  from  far  shall  cross  the  sea, 

When  autumn's  hue  shall  tinge  the  golden  grain — 
But  who  shall  teach  us  when  to  look  for  thee  ? 

Is  it  when  spring's  first  gale 
Comes  forth  to  whisper  where  the  violets  lie  ? 

Is  it  when  roses  in  our  paths  grow  pale  ? 
They  have  one  seasoH — all  are  ours  to  die ! 


Thou  art  where  billows  foam, 
Thou  art  where  music  melts  upon  the  air  ; 

Thou  art  around  us  in  our  peaceful  home. 
And  the  world  calls  us  forth — and  thou  art  there. 

Thou  art  where  friend  meets  friend. 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  the  elm  to  rest — 

Thou  art  where  foe  meets  foe,  and  trumpets  rend 
The  skies,  and  swords  beat  down  the  princely  crest 

Leaves  have  their  time  to  fall, 
And  flowers  to  wither  at  the  north  wind's  breath, 

And  stars  to  set — but  all, 
Thou  hast  all  seasons  for  thine  own,  oh  death  ! 

Felicia  Dorothea  Hemans. 


THE  RELIGION  OF  HUDIBRAS. 

'E  was  of  that  stubborn  crew 

Of  arrant  saints,  whom  all  men  grant 
To  be  the  true  church  militant ; 
Such  as  do  build  their  faith  upon 

The  holy  text  of  pike  and  gun  ; 

Decide  all  controversies  by 

Infallible  artillery. 

And  prove  their  doctrine  orthodox 

By  apostolic  blows  and  knocks  ; 

Call  fire,  and  sword,  and  desolation 

A  godly,  thorough  reformation, 

Which  always  must  be  carried  on 

And  still  be  doing,  never  done  ; 

As  if  religion  were  intended 

For  nothing  else  but  to  be  mended. 

A  sect  whose  chief  devotion  lies 

In  odd  perverse  antipathies  ; 

In  falling  out  with  that  or  this, 

And  finding  somewhat  still  amiss , 

More  peevish,  cross,  and  splenetic, 

Than  dog  distract,  or  monkey  sick  ; 

That  with  more  care  keep  holyday 

The  wrong  than  others  the  right  way  ; 

Compound  for  sins  they  are  inclined  to. 

By  damning  those  they  have  no  mind  to  ; 

Still  so  perverse  and  opposite. 

As  if  they  worshipped  God  for  spite  ; 

The  self-same  thing  they  will  abhor 

One  way,  and  long  another  for. 

Samuel  Butler. 


CREATIVE  POWER. 

'HE  spacious  firmament  on  high, 
With  all  the  blue  ethereal  sky, 
And  spangled  heavens,  a  shining  Irame, 
Their  great  Original  proclaim ; 
The  unwearied  sun,  from  day  to  day. 
Does  his  Creator's  power  display, 
And  publishes  to  every  land 
The  work  of  an  Almighty  hand. 


378 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


Soon  as  the  evening  shades  prevail, 
The  moon  takes  up  the  wondrous  tale, 
And  nightly  to  the  listening  earth 
Repeats  the  story  of  her  birth  ; 
While  all  the  stars  that  round  her  burn, 
And  all  the  planets  in  their  turn, 
Confirm  the  tidings  as  they  roll. 
And  spread  the  truth  from  pole  to  pole. 

What  though,  in  solemn  silence,  all 
Move  round  the  dark  terrestrial  ball  ? 
What  though  no  real  voice  or  sound 
Amid  their  radiant  orbs  be  found  ? 
In  reason's  ear  they  all  rejoice. 
And  utter  forth  a  glorious  voice. 
Forever  singing,  as  they  shine, 
'The  Hand  that  made  us  is  divine  ! " 

Joseph  Addison. 

NO  SECTS  IN  HEAVEN. 

ALKING  of  sects  till  late  one  eve. 

Of  the  various  doctrines  the  saints  believe, 
That  night  I  stood,  in  a  troubled  dream, 
"^        By  the  side  of  a  darkly  flowing  stream. 

And  a  "  Churchman  "  down  to  the  river  came  • 
When  I  heard  a  strange  voice  call  his  name, 
"  Good  father,  stop  ;  when  you  cross  this  tide. 
You  must  leave  your  robes  on  the  other  side." 

But  the  aged  father  did  not  mind  ; 
And  his  long  gown  floated  out  behind, 
As  down  to  the  stream  his  way  he  took. 
His  pale  hands  clasping  a  gilt-edged  book. 

"  Im  bound  for  heaven  ;  and  when  I'm  there, 
Shall  want  my  book  of  Common  Prayer ; 
And,  though  I  put  on  a  starry  crown, 
I  should  feel  quite  lost  without  my  gown." 

Then  he  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  shining  track, 
But  his  gown  was  heavy  and  held  him  back, 
And  the  poor  old  father  tried  in  vain, 
A  single  step  in  the  flood  to  gain. 

I  saw  him  again  on  the  other  side. 
But  his  silk  gown  floated  on  the  tide  ; 
And  no  one  asked,  in  that  blissful  spot, 
Whether  he  belonged  to  the  "  church  "  or  not. 

Then  down  to  the  river  a  Quaker  strayed ; 
His  dress  of  a  sober  hue  was  made  : 
"  My  coat  and  hat  must  all  be  gray — 
I  cannot  go  any  other  way." 

Then  he  buttoned  hi3  coat  straight  up  to  his  chin, 
And  staidly,  solemnly,  waded  in, 
And  his  broad-brimmed  hat  he  pulled  down  tight, 
Over  his  forehead  so  cold  and  white. 

But  a  strong  wind  carried  away  his  hat ; 
A  moment  he  silently  sighed  over  that ; 


And  then,  as  he  gazed  to  the  further  shore, 
The.coat  slipped  off",  and  was  seen  no  more. 

As  he  entered  heaven  his  suit  of  gray 
Went  quietly,  sailing,  away,  away  ; 
And  none  of  the  angels  questioned  him 
About  the  width  of  his  beaver's  brim. 

Next  came  Dr.  Watts,  Math  a  bundle  of  psalms 

Tied  nicely  up  in  his  aged  arms. 

And  hymns  as  many,  a  very  wise  thing, 

That  the  people  in  heaven,  "all  round,"  might  sing. 

But  I  thought  that  he  heaved  an  anxious  sigh, 
And  he  saw  that  the  river  ran  broad  and  high, 
And  looked  rather  surprised,  as  one  by  one 
The  psalms  and  hymns  in  the  wave  went  down. 

And  after  him,  with  his  MSS., 

Came  Wesley,  the  pattern  of  godliness  ; 

But  he  cried,  "  Dear  me !  what  shall  I  do  ? 

The  water  has  soaked  them  through  and  through." 

And  there  on  the  river  far  and  wide, 
Away  they  went  down  the  swollen  tide  ; 
And  the  saint,  astonished,  passed  through  alone 
Without  his  manuscripts,  up  to  the  throne. 

Then,  gravely  walking,  two  saints  by  name 
Down  to  the  stream  together  came  ; 
But,  as  they  stopped  at  the  river's  brink, 
I  saw  one  saint  from  the  other  shrink. 

"  Sprinkled  or  plunged?  may  I  ask  you,  friend, 

How  you  attained  to  life's  great  end  ?  " 
"  Thus,  with  a  few  drops  on  my  brow." 
"  But  /  have  been  dipped,  as  you'll  see  me  now, 

"  And  I  really  think  it  will  hardly  do, 
As  I'm  '  close  communion,'  to  cross  with  you  ; 
You're  bound,  I  know,  to  the  realms  of  bliss. 
But  you  must  go  that  way,  and  I'll  go  this." 

Then  straightway  plunging  with  all  his  might. 
Away  to  the  left — his  friend  to  the  right. 
Apart  they  went  from  this  world  of  sin, 
But  at  last  together  they  entered  in. 

And  now,  when  the  river  was  rolling  on, 

A  Presbyterian  church  went  down ; 

Of  women  there  seemed  an  innumerable  throng. 

But  the  men  I  could  count  as  they  passed  along. 

And  concerning  the  road,  they  could  never  agree. 
The  old  or  the  new  way,  wliich  it  could  it  be. 
Nor  ever  a  moment  paused  to  think 
That  both  would  lead  to  the  river's  brink. 

And  a  sound  of  murmuring,  long  and  loud. 
Came  ever  up  from  the  moving  crowd  ; 
"  You're  in  the  old  way,  and  I'm  in  the  new  ; 
That  is  the  false,  and  this  is  the  true  " — 
Or,  "  Im  in  the  old  way,  and  you're  in  the  new; 
That  is  the  false,  and  this  is  the  true," 


RELIGIOUS   LIFE. 


379 


But  the  "  brethren"  only  seemed  to  speak  : 
Modest  the  sisters  walked  and  meek, 
And  if  ever  one  of  them  chanced  to  say 
What  troubles  she  met  with  on  the  way, 
How  she  longed  to  pass  to  the  other  side, 
Nor  feared  to  cross  over  the  swelling  tide, 

A  voice  arose  from  the  brethren  then, 
'  iLet  no  one  speak  but  the  'holy  men  ,' 
For  have  ye  not  heard  the  words  of  Paul, 
Oh,  let^he  women  keep  silence  all  ? '" 

I  watched  them  long  in  my  curious  dream, 
Till  they  stood  by  the  borders  of  the  stream ; 
Then,  just  as  I  thought,  the  two  ways  met ; 
But  all  the  brethren  were  talking  yet. 
And  would  talk  on  till  the  heaving  tide 
Carried  them  over  side  by  side — 
Side  by  side,  for  the  way  was  one  ; 
The  toilsome  journey  of  life  wag  done; 
And  all  who  in  Christ  the  Saviour  died. 
Came  out  alike  on  the  other  side.  • 

No  forms  or  crosses  or  books  had  they ; 
No  gowns  of  silk  or  suits  of  gray; 
No  creeds  to  guide  them,  or  MSS. ; 
For  all  had  put  on  Christ's  righteousness. 

Mrs.  Cleveland. 

JOHN  JANKIN'S  SERMON. 

*HE  minister  said  last  night,  sa5*s  he, 
"Don't  be  afraid  of  givin' 
If  your  life  ain't  nothin'  to  other  folks 
^  Why,  what's  the  use  of  livin'  ?  " 

And  that's  what  I  say  to  my  wife,  says  I, 
"There's  Brown,  that  mis'rable  sinner, 
He'd  sooner  a  beggar  would  starve,  than  give 
A  cent  towards  buy  in'  a  dinner." 

I  tell  you  our  minister's  prime,  he  is. 

But  I  couldn't  quite  determine, 
When  I  heard  him  givin'  it  right  and  left. 

Just  who  was  hit  by  the  sermon. 
Of  course,  there  could  be  no  mistake. 

When  he  talked  of  long  winded  prayin'. 
For  Peters  and  Johnson  they  sat  and  scowled 

At  every  word  he  was  sayin*. 

And  the  minister  he  went  on  to  say, 
"There's  various  kinds  of  cheatin', 
And  religions  as  good  for  every  day 

As  it  is  to  bring  to  meetin'. 
I  don't  think  much  of  a  man  that  gives 

The  loud  'amens'  at  my  preachin', 
And  spends  his  time  the  followin'  week 

In  cheatin'  and  overreachin'." 

I  guess  that  dose  was  bitter 

For  a  man  like  Jones  to  swaller ; 
But  I  noticed  he  didn't  open  his  mouth, 

Not  once,  after  that,  to  holler. 


Hurrah  !  says  I,  for  the  minister — 

Of  course,  I  said  it  quiet — 
Give  us  some  more  of  this  open  talk  ; 

It's  very  refreshin'  diet. 

The  minister  hit  'em  every  time ; 

And  when  he  spoke  of  fashion, 
And  a-riggin'  out  in  bows  and  things. 

As  woman's  rulin'  passion, 
And  a-comin'  to  church  to  see  the  styles, 

I  couldn't  help  a  winkin' 
And  a-nudgin'  my  wife,  and. says  I,  "That's  you,' 

And  I  guess  it  sot  her  thinkin'. 

Says  I  to  myself,  that  sermon's  pat ; 

But  man  is  a  queer  creation ; 
And  I'm  much  afraid  that  most  o'  the  folks 

Wouldn't  take  the  application. 
Now,  if  he  had  said  a  word  about 

My  personal  mode  o'  sinnin', 
I'd  have  gone  to  work  to  right  myself, 

And  not  set  there  a-grinnin'. 

Just  then  the  minister  says,  says  he, 
"And  now  I've  come  to  the  fellers 
Who've  lost  this  shower  by  usin'  their  friends 

As  a  sort  o'  moral  umbrellers. 
Go  home,"  says  he,  "  and  find  your  faults. 

Instead  of  huntin'  your  brother's  ; 
Go  home,"  he  says,  "and  wear  the  coats 

You've  tried  to  fit  on  others." 

My  wife,  she  nudged,  and  Brown  he  winked. 

And  there  was  lots  of  smilin' 
And  lots  o'  lookin'  at  our  pew ; 

It  sot  my  blood  a-bilin'. 
Says  I  to  myself,  our  minister 

Is  gettin'  a  little  bitter  ; 
111  tell  him  when  meetin's  out  that  I 

Ain't  at  all  that  kind  of  a  critter. 


WE'VE  ALWAYS  BEEN  PROVIDED  FOR 

OOD  wife,  what  are  you  singing  for  ?    You 
know  we  ve  lost  the  hay, 
And  what  w^'ll  do  with  horse  and  kye  is 
J  more  than  I  can  say  ; 

While  like  as  not,  with  storm  and  rain,  we'll  lose  both 

com  and  wheat." 
She  looked  up  with  a  pleasant  face,  and  answered  low 

and  sweet : 
"There  is  a  Heart,  there  is  a  Hand,  we  feel,  but  can- 
not see ; 
We've  always  been  provided  for,  and  we  shall  always 
be." 

He  turned  round  with  a  sudden  gloom.    She  said : 

"  Love,  be  at  rest ; 
You  cut  the  grass,  worked  soon  and  late,  you  did  your 

very  best. 


380 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


That  was  your  work  ;  you'd  naught  at  all  to  do  with 

wind  and  rain, 
And  no  doubt  but  that  you  will  reap  rich  fields  of 

golden  grain ; 
For  there's  a  Heart,  and  there's  a  Hand,  we  feel,  but 

cannot  see — 
We've  always  been  provided  for,  and  we  shall  always 

be." 

"That's  like  a  woman's  reasoning — we  mast,  because 

we  must." 
She  softly  said  :  "  I  reason  not,  I  only  work  and  trust ; 
The  harvest  may  redeem  the  day — keep  heart,  what- 

e'er  betide, 
When  one  door  shuts,  I've  always  seen  another  open 

wide. 
There  is  a  Heart,  there  is  a  Hand,  we  feel,  but  cannot 

see; 
We've  always  been  provided  for,  and  we  shall  always 

be." 

He  kissed  the  calm  and  trustful  face,  gone  was  his  rest- 
less pain. 

She  heard  him  with  a  cheerful  step  go  whistling  down 
the  lane. 

And  when  about  her  household  tasks,  full  of  a  glad 
content. 

Singing,  to  time  her  busy  hands,  as  to  and  fro  she 
went — 

"  There  is  a  Heart,  there  is  a  Hand,  we  feel,  but  cannot 
see; 

We've  always  been  provided  for,  and  we  shall  always 
be." 

Days  come  and  go — 'twas  Christmas  tide,  and  the 

great  fire  burned  clear. 
The  farmer  said:   "Dear  wife,  it's  been  a  good  and 

happy  year ; 
The  fruit  was  gain,  the  surplus  com  has  bought  the 

hay,  you  know." 
She  lifted  then  a  smiling  face,  and  said  :  "  I  told  you 

so! 
For  there's  a  Heart,  and  there's  a  Hand,  we  feel,  but 

cannot  see ; 
We've  always  been  provided  for,  and  we  shall  always 

be." 


MERCY. 

HE  quality  of  mercy  is  not  strained ; 
It  droppeth,  as  the  gentle  rain  from  heaven 
Upon  the  place  beneath :  it  is  twice  blessed ; 
It  blesseth  him  that  gives,  and  him  that  takes  : 

'Tis  mightiest  in  the  mightiest ;  it  becomes 

The  throned  monarch  belter  than  his  crown  ; 

His  sceptre  shows  the  force  of  temporal  power 

The  attribute  to  awe  and  majesty, 

Wherein  doth  sit  the  dread  and  fear  of  kingp ; 

But  mercy  is  above  this  sceptred  sway — 

It  is  enthroned  in  the  hearts  of  kings, 


It  is  an  attribute  to  God  himself; 
And  earthly  power  doth  then  show  likest  God's 
When  mercy  seasons  justice.     Therefore,  Jew, 
Though  justice  be  thy  plea,  consider  this — 
That  in  the  course  of  justice,  none  of  us 
Should  see  salvation  :  we  do  pray  for  mercy  ; 
And  that  same  prayer  should  teach  us  all  to  render 
The  deeds  of  mercy. 

William  Shakespeare. 


UST  HYMN. 

KNOW  not  what  awaits  me, 

God  kindly  veils  mine  eyes,  ' 

And  o'er  each  step  on  my  onward  way 

He  makes  new  scenes  arise  ; 
And  every  joy  he  sends  me  comes 

A  sweet  and  glad  surprise. 

Where  He  may  lead  I'll  follow, 

My  trust  in  Him  repose, 
And  every  hour  in  perfect  peace 

I'll  sing,  "He  knows.  He  knows." 

One  step  I  see  before  me  ; 

'Tis  all  I  need  to  see  ; 
The  light  of  heaven  more  brightly  shines 

When  earth's  illusions  flee, 
And  sweetly  through  the  silence  comes 

His  loving  "Follow  Me." 

O  blissful  lack  of  wisdom, 

'Tis  blessed  not  to  know  ; 
He  holds  me  with  His  own  right  hand, 

And  will  not  let  me  go, 
And  lulls  my  troubled  soul  to  rest 

In  Him  who  loves  me  so. 

So  on  I  go,  not  knowing, 

I  would  not  if  I  might ; 
I'd  rather  walk  in  the  dark  with  God 

Than  go  alone  in  the  light ; 
I'd  rather  walk  by  faith  with  Him  j 

Than  go  alone  by  sight. 

Mary  G.  Brainard. 


A  FATHER  READING  THE  BIBLE. 

WAS  early  day,  and  sunlight  streamed 
Soft  through  a  quiet  room. 
That  hushed,  but  not  forsaken,  seemed, 
Still,  but  with  nought  of  gloom. 
For  there,  serene  in  happy  age, 

Whose  hope  is  from  above, 
A  father  communed  with  the  page 
Of  Heaven's  recorded  love. 


Pure  fell  the  beam,  and  meekly  bright, 

On  his  gray  holy  hair. 
And  touched  the  page  with  tenderest  light, 

As  if  its  shrine  were  there ! 


RELIGIOUS   LIFE. 


381 


But  oh  !  that  patriarch's  aspect  shone 

With  something  lovelier  far — 
A  radiance  all  the  spirit's  own, 

Caught  not  from  sun  or  star. 

Some  word  of  life  e'en  then  had  met 

His  calm  benignant  eye  : 
Some  ancient  promise,  breathing  yet 

Of  immortality ! 
Some  martyr's  prayer,  wherein  the  glow 

Of  queenchless  faith  survives  : 
While  every  feature  said — "  I  know 

That  my  Redeemer  lives  !  " 

And  silent  stood  his  children  by, 

Hushing  their  very  breath, 
Before  the  solemn  sanctity 

Of  thoughts  o'ersweeping  death. 
Silent — yet  did  not  each  young  breast 

With  love  and  reverence  melt  ? 
Oh  !  blest  be  those  fair  girls,  and  blest 

That  home  where  God  is  felt ! 

Felicia  Dorothea  Hemans. 


llJ 


TO  A  FAMILY  BIBLE. 

'HAT  household  thoughts    around    thee,   as 
their  shrine, 
Cling    reverently? — of    anxious    looks    be- 
guiled, 
My  mother's  eyes,  upon  thy  page  divine, 
Each  day  were  bent — her  accents  gravely  mild. 
Breathed  out  thy  love  :  whilst  I,  a  dreamy  child. 
Wandered  on  breeze-like  fancies  oft  away, 
To  some  lone  tuft  of  gleaming  spring-flowers  wild. 
Some  fresh-discovered  nook  for  woodland  play, 
Some  secret  nest :  yet  would  the  solemn  Word 
At  times,  with  kindlings  of  young  wonder  heard. 

Fall  on  my  weakened  spirit,  there  to  be 
A  seed  not  lost : — for  which,  in  darker  years, 
O  Book  of  Heaven  !  I  pour,  with  grateful  tears, 
Heart  blessings  on  the  holy  dead  and  thee ! 

Felicia  Dorothea  Hemans. 


•     THE  PHANTOM  ISLES. 

In  the  East  River,  above  New  York,  there  are  many  small 
islands,  the  frequent  resort  of  summer  pleasure-parties.  One  of 
the  dangers  haunting  these  scenes  of  amusement  is  that  high  tides 
often  cover  the  islands.  The  incidents  recorded  in  the  following 
lines  took  place  under  the  circumstances  mentioned,  and  the 
entire  change  in  the  heart  and  life  of  the  bereaved  father  makes 
the  simple  story  as  instructive  as  it  is  interesting  and  touching. 

'HE  Phantom  Isles  are  fading  from  the  sea  ; 

The  groups  that  thronged  them  leave  their 
sinking  shores ; 
And  shout  and  laugh,  and  jocund  song  and 
glee 
Ring  through  the  mist,  to  beat  of  punctual  oars. 
Through  the  gray  mist  that  comes  up  with  the  tide, 
And  covers  all  the  ocean  far  and  wide. 


Of  the  gay  revellers  one  child  alone 
Was  wantmg  at  the  roll's  right  merry  call ; 

From  boat  to  boat  they  sought  him  ;  he  was  gone, 
And  fear  and  trembling  filled  the  hearts  of  all  , 

For  the  damp  mist  was  falling  fast  the  while. 

And  the  sea,  rising,  swallowing  up  each  isle. 

The  trembling  father  guides  the  searching  band. 
While  every  sinew,  hope  and  fear  can  strain, 

Is  strerched  to  bring  the  quivering  boat  to  land. 
And  find  the  lost  one — but  is  stretched  in  vain ' 

No  land  they  find,  but  one  sweet  call  they  hear, 

"  Steer  this  way,  father !  this  way,  father  dear ! " 

That  voice  they  follow,  certain  they  have  fouad, 
But  vainly  sweep  the  waters  o'er  and  o'er  ; 

The  whispering  waves  have  ceased  their  rippling  sound: 
Their  silence  telling  they  have  lost  their  shore  : 

Yet  still  the  sweet  young  voice  cries  loud  and  clear, 

"  Steer  this  way,  father  !  this  way,  father  dear ! " 

Onward  they  rush,  like  those  who  in  the  night 
Follow  the  phantom  flame,  but  never  find  ; 

Now  certain  that  the  voice  has  led  them  right. 
Yet  the  next  moment  hearing  it  behind  ; 

But  wrapt  in  gurgling,  smothered  sounds  of  fear, 

"  Steer  this  way,  father !  this  way,  father  dear ! " 

The  night  is  spent  in  vain — no  further  cry 
Cheers  them  with  hope,  or  wilders  them  with  fear ; 

With  breaking  morning,  as  the  mists  sweep  by. 
They  can  see  nothing  but  wide  waters  drear  ; 

Yet  ever  in  the  childless  father's  ear 

Rings  the  sad  cry,  "  Steer  this  way,  father  dear  !  " 

And  on  through  life,  across  its  changeful  tide. 
Where  many  a  doubtful  course  before  him.lay. 

That  sweet  young  voice  did  help  him  to  decide, 
When  others  strove  to  lure  his  bark  astray  ; 

Calling  from  heaven,  in  accents  soft  and  clear, 

"Steer  this  way,  father !  this  way,  father  dear  ! " 

Until  there  at  length — drawn  upward  to  the  land 
Where  is  no  more  sorrow,  no  more  sea  : 

Cheering  him  brightly  from  its  crystal  strand 
Into  the  haven  where  his  soul  would  be  ; 

These  the  last  whispers  in  his  dying  ear, 

"  Steer  this  way,  father!  this  way,  father  dear ! " 

John  Mon-skll. 


AMAZING,  BEAUTEOUS  CHANGE  I 


(3 


MAZING,  beauteous  change  ! 
A  world  created  new ! 
My  thoughts  with  transport  range, 
The  lovely  scene  to  view  ; 
In  all  I  trace. 
Saviour  divine, 
The  work  is  thine — 
Be  thine  the  praise  ! 

See  crystal  fountains  play 
Amidst  the  burning  sands ; 


382 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


The  river's  winding  way 
Shines  through  the  thirsty  lands  ; 

New  grass  is  seen, 

And  o'er  the  meads 

Its  carpet  spreads  * 

Of  living  green. 

Where  pointed  brambles  grew, 
Intwined  with  horrid  thorn, 
Gay  flowers,  forever  new, 
The  painted  fields  adorn — 

The  blushing  rose 

And  lily  there, 

In  union  fair, 

Their  sweets  disclose. 

Where  the  bleak  mountain  stood 
All  bare  and  disarrayed, 
See  the  wide-branching  wood 
Diffuse  its  grateful  shade  : 

Tall  cedars  nod, 

And  oaks  and  pines. 

And  elms  and  vines 

Confess  the  God. 

The  tyrants  of  the  plain 
Their  savage  chase  give  o'er — 
No  more  they  rend  the  slain, 
And  thirst  for  blood  no  more ; 

But  infant  hands 

Fierce  tigers  stroke, 

And  lions  yoke 

In  flowery  bands. 

O,  when,  Almighty  Lord  ! 
Shall  these  glad  scenes  arise, 
To  verify  Thy  word, 
And  bless  our  wondering  eyes  ' 

Philip  Doddridge. 


ACROSS  THE  RIVER, 

HEN  for  me  the  silent  oar 

Parts  the  silent  river, 
And  I  stand  upon  the  shore 

Of  the  strange  forever. 
Shall  I  miss  the  loved  and  known  ? 
Shall  I  vainly  seek  mine  own? 

Mid  the  crowd  that  come  to  meet 

Spirits  sin-forgiven — 
Listening  to  their  echoing  feet 

Down  the  streets  of  heaven — 
Shall  I  know  a  footstep  near 
That  I  listen,  wait  for,  here  ? 

Then  will  one  approach  the  brink, 
With  a  hand  extended  ? — 

One  whose  thoughts  I  loved  to  think 
Ere  the  veil  was  rended. 

Saying,  ' '  Welcome  I  we  have  died. 

And  again  are  side  by  side." 


Saying,  "I  will  go  with  thee; 

That  thou  be  not  lonely. 
To  yon  hills  of  mystery ; 

I  have  waited  only 
Until  now  to  climb  with  thee 
Yonder  hills  of  mystery." 

Can  the  bonds  that  make  us  here 

Know  ourselves  immortal, 
Drop  away,  the  foliage  sear. 

At  life's  inner  portal  ? 
What  is  holiest  below 
Must  forever  live  and  grow. 

I  shall  love  the  angels  well, 

After  I  have  found  them. 
In  the  mansions  where  they  dwell, 

With  the  glory  round  them  ; 
But  at  first,  without  surprise. 
Let  me  look  for  human  eyes. 

Step  by  step  our  feet  must  go  ' 

Up  the  holy  mountain  ; 
Drop  by  drop  within  us  flow 

Life's  unfailing  fountain. 
Angels  sing  with'  crowns  that  bum ; 
Shall  we  have  a  song  to  learn  ? 

He  who  on  our  earthly  path 

Bids  us  help  each  other — 
Who  His  Well-beloved  hath 

Made  our  Elder  Brother — 
Will  but  clasp  the  chain  of  love 
Closer,  when  we  meet  above. 

Therefore  dread  I  not  to  go 

O'er  the  silent  river; 
Death,  thy  hastening  oar  I  know  : 

Bear  me,  thou  life-giver, 
Through  the  waters,  to  the  shore 
Where  mine  own  have  gone  before, 

Lucy  Larcom 


fi 


A  PRAYER. 

EAD,  Kindly  Light,  amid  the  encircling  gloom. 
Lead  thou  me  on  , 
The  night  is  dark,  and  I  am  far  away  from 
home. 

Lead  thou  me  on , 
Keep  thou  my  feet — I  do  not  ask  to  see 
The  distant  scene ;  one  step  enough  for  me. 

I  was  not  ever  thus,  nor  prayed  that  thou 

Shouldst  lead  me  on  ; 
I  loved  to  choose  and  see  my  path,  but  now 

Lead  thou  me  on. 
I  loved  the  garish  day,  and,  spite  of  fears. 
Pride  ruled  my  will ;  remember  not  past  years. 

So  long  thy  power  has  blessed  me,  sure  it  still 
Will  lead  me  on 


RELIGIOUS   LIFE. 


383 


O'er  moor  and  fen,  o'er  crag  and  torrent,  till 

The  night  is  gone  ; 
And  with  the  mom  those  angel  faces  smile 
Whom  I  have  loved  long  since,  and  lost  awhile. 
John  Henry  Newman. 


THE   GOLDEN  RULE. 

PEAK  no  evil,  and  cause  no  ache  ; 
Utter  no  jest  that  can  pain  awake  ; 
Guard  your  actions  and  bridle  your  tongue ; 
Words  are  adders  when  hearts  are  stung. 

Help  whoever,  whenever  you  can  ; 

Man  forever  needs  aid  from  man  ; 

Let  never  a  day  die  in  the  west 

That  you  have  not  comforted  some  sad  breast. 


A  SUMMER  EVENING. 

*OW  fine  has  the  day  been,  how  bright  was  the 
sun. 
How  lovely  and  joyful  the  course  that  he  run, 
Though  he  rose  in  a  mist  when  his  race  he 
beg^n, 
And  there  followed  some  droppings  of  rain  ! 
But  now  the  fair  traveler's  come  to  the  west. 
His  rays  are  all  gold,  and  his  beauties  are  best ; 
He  paints  the  sky  gay  as  he  sinks  to  his  rest, 
And  foretells  a  bright  rismg  again. 

Just  such  is  the  Christian  ;  his  course  he  begins. 

Like  the  sun  in  a  mist,  when  he  mourns  for  his  .«ins, 

And  melts  into  tears  ;  then  he  breaks  out  and  shines. 

And  travels  his  heavenly  way  : 
But  when  he  comes  nearer  to  finish  his  race. 
Like  a  fine  setting  sun,  he  looks  richer  in  grace, 
And  gives  a  sure  hope  at  the  end  of  his  days. 

Of  rising  in  brighter  array. 

Isaac  Watts. 

A  DYING  HYMN. 

The  last  stanza  composed  by  Alice  Cary,  was  written  on  her 
/leath-bed,  with  trembling  hand,  the  pen  falling  from  her  fingers 
as  the  chill  of  death  was  stealing  over  her.    The  stanza  was  this : 

"  As  the  poor  panting  hart  to  the  water-brook  runs — 
As  the  water-brook  runs  to  the  sea^- 
So  earth's  fainting  daughters  and  famishing  sons, 
Oh,  fountain  of  love,  run  to  Thee." 

Then,  with  her  last  breath,  she  repeated  the  following,  written 
some  years  before,  as  if  prophetic  of  her  last  hour : 

ARTH  with  its  dark  and  dreadful  ills 
Recedes,  and  fades  away  ; 
Lift  up  your  heads,  ye  heavenly  hills  i 
Ye  gates  of  death,  give  way  ! 

My  soul  is  full  of  whispered  song  ; 

My  blindness  is  my  sight ; 
The  shadows  that  I  feared  so  long, 

Are  all  alive  with  light. 


The  while  my  pulses  faintly  beat, 

My  faith  doth  so  abound, 
I  feel  grow  firm  beneath  my  feet 

The  green  immortal  ground. 

That  faith  to  me  a  courage  gives 

Low  as  the  grave  to  go  ; 
I  know  that  my  Redeemer  lives  : 

That  I  shall  live  I  know. 

The  palace  walls  I  almost  see. 

Where  dwells  my  Lord  and  King ; 

Oh,  grave,  where  is  thy  victory  ?  , 

Oh,  d^ath,  where  is  thy  sting? 

Alice  Gary. 


WHEN. 


F  I  were  told  that  I  must  die  to-morrow, 
That  the  the  next  sun 
Which  sinks  should  bear  me  past  all  fear  and 
sorrow 

For  any  one, 
All  the  fight  fought,  all  the  short  journey  through, 
What  should  I  do? 

I  do  not  think  that  I  should  shrink  or  falter, 

But  just  go  on, 
Doing  my  work,  nor  change  nor  seek  to  alter 

Aught  that  is  gone; 
But  rise  and  move  and  love  and  smile  and  pray 

For  one  more  day. 

And,  lying  down  at  night  for  a  last  sleeping. 

Say  in  that  ear 
Which  heaikens  ever :  "  Lord,  within  thy  keeping 

How  should  I  fear  ? 
And  when  to-morrow  brings  Thee  nearer  still 

Do  Thou  Thy  wilL" 

I  might  not  sleep  for  awe  ;  but  peaceful,  tender, 

My  soul  would  lie 
All  the  night  long  ;  and  when  the  morning  splendor 

Flushed  o'er  the  sky, 
I  think  that  I  could  smile — could  calmly  say, 
'It  is  His  day." 

But  if  a  wondrous  hand  from  the  blue  yonder 

Held  out  a  scroll. 
On  which  my  life  was  writ,  and  I  with  wonder 

Beheld  unroll 
To  a  long  century's  end  its  mystic  clue, 

What  should  I  do  ? 

What  could  I  do,  oh  !  blessed  Guide  and  Master, 

Other  than  this : 
Still  to  go  on  as  now,  not  slower,  faster, 

Nor  fear  to  miss 
The  road,  although  so  very  long  it  be, 

While  led  by  Thee? 


384 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


Step  after  step,  feeling  Thee  close  beside  me, 

Although  unseen, 
Through  thorns,  through  flowers,  whether  the  tem- 
pest hide  Thee, 

Or  heavens  serene, 
Assured  Thy  faithfulness  cannot  betray, 

Thy  love  decay. 

I  may  not  know ;  my  God,  no  hand  revealeth 

Thy  counsels  wise ; 
Along  the  path  a  deepening  shadow  stealeth, 

No  voice  replies 
To  all  my  questioning  thought,  the  time  to  tell, 

And  it  is  well. 

Let  me  keep  on,  abiding  and  unfearing 

Thy  will  always, 
Through  a  long  century's  ripening  fruition 

Or  a  short  day's, 
Thou  canst  not  come  too  soon  ;  and  I  can  wait 

If  thou  come  late. 

Susan  Coolidge. 


GRANDMOTHER'S  BIBLE. 

'  O  you've  brought  me  this  costly  Bible, 
With  its  covers  so  grand  and  gay ; 
You  thought  I  must  need  a  new  one 
On  my  eighty-first  birthday,  you  say. 
Yes,  mine  is  a  worn-out  volume, 

Grown  ragged  and  yellow  with  age, 
With  finger-prints  thick  on  the  margin  ; 
But  there's  never  a  missing  page. 

And  the  finger-prints  call  back  my  wee  ones, 

Just  learning  a  verse  to  repeat ; 
And  again,  in  the  twilight,  their  faces 

Look  up  to  me  eagerly  sweet. 
It  has  pencil  marks  pointed  in  silence 

To  words  I  have  hid  in  my  heart ; 
And  the  lessons  so  hard  in  the  learning, 

Once  learned,  can  never  depart. 

There's  the  verse  your  grandfather  spoke  of 

The  very  night  that  he  died, 
"  When  I  awake  with  Thy  likeness, 

I,  too,  shall  be  satisfied." 
And  here,  inside  the  old  cover, 

Is  a  date,  it  is  faded  and  dim. 
For  I  wrote  it  the  day  the  good  pastor 

Baptized  me — I've  an  old  woman's  whim 

That  beside  the  pearl-gates  he  is  waking, 

And  when  by  and  by  I  shall  go, 
That  he  will  lead  me  into  that  kingdom. 

As  then  into  tliis  one  below. 
And  under  that  date,  little  Mary, 

Write  another  one  when  I  die  ; 
Then  keep  both  Bibles  and  read  them  ; 

God  bless  you,  child,  why  should  you  cry  ? 


Your  gift  is  a  beauty,  my  dearie, 

With  its  wonderful  clasps  of  gold, 
Put  it  carefully  into  that  drawer  ; 

I  shall  keep  It  till  death  ;  but  the  old — 
Just  leave  it  close  by  on  the  table. 

And  then  you  may  bring  me  a  light. 
And  I'll  read  a  sweet  psalm  from  its  pages 

To  think  of,  if  wakeful  to-night. 

Hattie  a.  Cooley. 


ALL'S  FOR  THE  BEST. 

aLL'S  for  the  best !  be  sanguine  and  cheerful. 
Troubles  and  sorrows  are  friends  in  disguist 
Nothing  but  folly  goes  faithless  and  fearful — 
Courage  forever  is  happy  and  wise ; 
All's  for  the  best — if  a  man  could  but  know  it, 

Providence  wishes  us  all  to  be  blest ; 
This  is  no  dream  of  the  pundit  or  poet, 
Heaven  is  gracious,  and  all's  for  the  best ! 

All's  for  the  best !  set  this  on  your  standard, 

Soldier  of  sadness,  or  pilgrim  of  love, 
Who  to  the  shores  of  despair  may  have  wandered, 

A  wayfaring  swallow,  or  heart-stricken  dove. 
All's  for  the  best !  be  a  man,  but  confiding, 

Providence  tenderly  governs  the  rest. 
And  the  frail  bark  of  his  creatures  is  guiding, 

Wisely  and  warily,  all's  for  the  best ! 

All's  for  the  best !  then  fling  away  terrors. 

Meet  all  your  fears  and  loss  in  the  van. 
And  in  the  midst  of  your  dangers  or  errors. 

Trust  like  a  child,  while  you  strive  like  a  man. 
All's  for  the  best !  unbiassed,  unbounded, 

Providence  reigns  from  the  east  to  the  west. 
And  by  both  wisdom  and  mercy  surrounded, 

Hope  and  be  happy,  for  all's  for  the  best! 


STILL  WATERS. 

ESIDE  the  still  waters !  O  infinite  peace  ! 
When  God  leadeth  me  there,  my  troubles  all 

cease ; 

And  my  feet,  by  the  thorns  of  life's  wilderness 
torn. 
Are  bathed  in  the  dews  that  are  wept  by  the  mom. 

Beside  the  still  waters,  where  pastures  are  green 
And  the  glad  sky  bends  o'er  them  in  shadow  and 

sheen ; 
I  think  of  the  glooms  through  whose  terrors  I  fled, 
And  bless  the  dear  hand  which  my  footsteps  hath  led. 

Beside  the  still  waters  my  cross  it  grows  light. 
That,  fainting,  I  bore  through  the  storms  of  the  night, 
The  same,  though  another  it  seems ;  and  I  pray 
No  more  that  my  burden  be  taken  away. 

Beside  the  still  waters,  ah  !  ripple  and  gleam 
A  thousand-fold  rarer  in  loveliness  seem, 


RELIGIOUS   LIFE. 


385 


For  the  billows  and  foam,  and  the  tumults  of  wrath 
In  the  tempests  of  trial  that  compassed  my  path. 

Beside  the  still  waters  my  hunger  is  fed, 

And  sweeter  than  manna  drops  daily  my  bread  ; 

While  of  Christ,  the  great  Rock  that  shadows  their 

brink. 
The  full-flowing  streams  of  salvation  I  drink. 

Beside  the  still  waters  !  Ah  !  why  should  I  know 
Rough  ways  for  my  feet,  and  the  torrent's  wild  flow, 
When  he  who  still  leadeth  me  morning  and  night, 
Could  hold  me  for  aye  in  the  spell  of  delight  ? 

Berside  the  still  waters,  shut  in  by  God  s  hills, 
The  exquisite  sense  of  protection  that  fills 
My  bosom  is  born  of  the  perils  o'erpast ; 
As  He  led  me  at  first,  so  He  leads  me  at  last ! 

W.  C.  Richards. 

ANSWERED  PRAYERS 

PRAYED  for  riches,  and  achieved  success — 
All  that  I  touched  turned  into  gold.     Alas  I 
My  cares  were  greater,  and  my  peace  was  less 
When  that  wish  came  to  pass. 

I  prayed  for  glorj- ;  and  I  heard  my  name 
Sung  by  sweet  children  and  by  hoary  men. 

But  ah !  the  hurts,  the  hurts  that  come  with  fame  ! 
I  was  not  happy  then. 

I  prayed  for  love,  and  had  my  soul's  desire  ; 

Through  quivering  heart  and  body  and  through  brain 
There  swept  the  flame  of  its  devouring  fire ; 

And  there  the  scars  remain. 

I  prayed  for  a  contented  mind.     At  length 
Great  light  upon  my  darkened  spirit  burst; 

Great  peace  fell  on  me,  also,  and  great  strength. 
Oh  I  had  that  prayer  been  first ! 

Ella  Wheeler. 

THE  FINAL  GOAL. 

YET  we  trust  that  somehow  good 
Will  be  the  final  goal  of  ill, 
To  pangs  of  nature,  sins  of  will. 
Defects  of  doubt,  and*taints  of  blood  ; 

That  nothing  walks  with  aimless  feet ; 

That  not  one  life  shall  be  destroyed, 

Or  cast  as  rubbish  to  the  void. 
When  God  hath  made  the  pile  complete; 

That  not  a  worm  is  cloven  in  vain  ; 

That  not  a  moth  with  vain  desire 

Is  shrivelled  in  a  fruitless  fire. 
Or  but  subserves  another's  gain. 

Behold,  we  know  not  anything ; 

I  can  but  trust  that  good  shall  fall 

At  last— far  off— at  last,  to  all. 
And  every  winter  change  to  spring. 

(25) 


So  runs  my  dream  :  but  what  am  I  ? 

An  infant  crying  in  the  night : 

An  infant  crying  for  the  light : 
And  with  no  language  but  a  cry. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


SAFE  TO  THE  LAND. 

*r  KNOW  not  if  the  dark  or  bright 
•©•  Shall  be  my  lot ; 

»l»     If  that  wherein  my  hopes  delight, 
'  Be  best  or  not. 

It  may  be  mine  to  drag  for  years 

Toil's  heavy  chain  ; 
Or  day  or  night,  my  meat  be  tears, 

On  bed  of  pain. 

Dear  faces  may  surround  my  hearth 

With  smile  and  glee. 
Or  I  may  dwell  alone,  and  mirth 

Be  strange  to  me. 

My  bark  is  wafted  to  the  strand 

By  breath  divine; 
And  on  the  helm  there  rests  a  hand 

Other  than  mine. 

One  who  has  ever  known  to  sail 

I  have  on  board  ; 
Above  the  raging  of  the  gale, 

I  hear  my  Lord. 

He  holds  me  ;  when  the  billows  smite    . 

I  shall  not  fall ; 
If  sharp,  'tis  short ;  if  long,  'tis  light ; 

He  tempers  all. 

Safe  to  the  land,  safe  to  the  land ! 

The  end  is  this  ; 
And  then  with  Him  go  hand  in  hand. 
Far  into  bliss. 

Henry  Alford. 

MY  CREED. 

S  other  men  have  creed,  so  have  I  mine  : 
I  keep  the  holy  faith  in  God,  in  man. 
And  in  the  angels  ministrant  between  ; 
I  hold  to  one  true  church  of  all  true  souls. 
Whose  churchly  seal  is  neither  bread  nor  wine, 
Nor  laying-on  of  hands,  nor  holy  oil, 
But  only  the  annointing  of  God's  grace. 

I  hate  all  kings  and  caste  of  rank  of  birth. 

For  all  the  sons  of  man  are  sons  of  God; 

Nor  limps  a  beggar  but  is  nobly  born, 

Nor  wears  a  slave  a  yoke,  nor  czar  a  crown, 

That  makes  him  more  or  less  than  just  a  man  ; 

I  love  my  country  and  her  righteous  cause, 

So  dare  I  not  keep  silent  of  her  sin  ; 

And  after  freedom  may  her  bells  ring  peace  ! 


0 


.ManRr 


386 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


I  love  one  woman  witli  a  holy  fire, 
Wliom  I  revere  as  priestess  of  my  house  ; 
I  stand  with  wondering  awe  before  my  babes 
Till  they  rebuke  me  too  a  nobler  life  ; 
I  keep  a  faithful  friendship  with  a  friend 
Whom  loyally  I  serve  btfore  myself; 
1  lock  my  lips  too  close  to  speak  a  lie, 
I  wash  my  hands  too  white  to  touch  a  bribe  : 
I  owe  no  man  a  debt  I  cannot  pay, 
Save  only  of  the  love  men  ought  to  owe  ; 
Withal,  each  day,  before  the  blessed  Heaven, 
I  open  wide  the  chambers  of  my  soul 
And  pray  the  Holy  Ghost  to  enter  in. 

Thus  reads  the  fair  confession  of  my  faith, 
So  crossed  the  contradictions  of  my  life, 
That  now  may  God  forgive  the  written  lie  ! 
Yet  still,  by  help  of  Him  who  helpeth  men, 
I  face  two  worlds,  and  fear  not  life  nor  death. 
O  Father,  lead  me  by  Thy  hand  !    Amen. 

Theodore  Tilton. 


DANIEL  GRAY. 

F  I  shall  ever  win  the  home  in  heaven 

For  whose  sweet  rest  I  humbly  hope  and  pray, 
In  the  great  company  of  the  forgiven 
I  shall  be  sure  to  find  old  Daniel  Gray. 

I  knew  him  well ;  in  truth,  few  knew  him  better  ; 

For  my  young  eyes  oft  read  for  him  the  Word, 
And  saw  how  meekly  from  the  crystal  letter 

He  drank  the  life  of  his  beloved  Lord. 

Old  Daniel  Gray  was  not  a  man  who  lifted 
On  ready  words  his  freight  of  gratitude. 

Nor  was  he  called  upon  among  the  .gifted, 
In  the  prayer-meetingfs  of  his  neighborhood. 

He  had  a  few  old-fashioned  words  and  phrases. 
Linked  in  with  sacred  texts  and  Sunday  rhymes  ; 

And  I  suppose  that  in  his  prayers  and  graces, 
I've  heard  them  all  at  least  a  thousand  times. 

I  see  him  now — his  form,  his  face,  his  motions, 
His  homespun  habit,  and  his  silver  hair — 

And  hear  the  language  of  his  trite  devotions. 
Rising  behind  the  straight-backed  kitchen  chair. 

I  can  remember  how  the  sentence  sounded — 
"  Help  us,  O  Lord,  to  pray  and  not  to  faint !" 

And  how  the  "conquering  and  to  conquer"  rounded 
The  loftier  aspirations  of  the  saint. 

He  had  some  notions  that  did  not  improve  him  : 
He  nevt  r  kissed  his  children — so  they  say  ; 

And  finest  scenes  and  fairest  flowers  would  move  him 
Less  than  a  horseshoe  picked  up  in  the  way. 

He  had  a  hearty  hatred  of  oppression, 
And  righteous  words  for  sin  of  every  kind  ; 


Alas,  that  the  transgressor  and  transgression 
Were  linked  so  closely  in  his  honest  mind. 

He  could  see  naught  but  vanity  in  beauty, 
And  naught  but  weakness  in  a  fond  caress. 

And  pitied  men  whose  views  of  Christian  duty 
Allowed  indulgence  in  such  foolishness. 

Yet  there  were  love  and  tenderness  within  him  ; 

And  I  am  told  that  when  his  Charlie  died, 
Nor  nature's  need  nor  gentle  words  could  win  him 

From  his  fond  vigils  at  the  sleeper's  side. 

And  when  they  came  to  bury  little  Charlie, 
They  found  fresh  dew-drops  sprinkled  in  his  hair. 

And  on  his  breast  a  rose-bud  gathered  early, 
And  guessed,  but  did  not  know,  who  placed  it  there. 

Honest  and  faithful,  constant  in  liis  calling, 
Strictly  attendant  on  the  means  of  grace, 

Instant  in  prayer,  and  fearful  most  of  falling. 
Old  Daniel  Gray  was  always  in  his  place. 

A  practical  old  man,  and  yet  a  dreamer ; 

He  thought  that  in  some  strange,  unlooked-for  way 
His  mighty  friend  in  Heaven,  the  great  Redeemer, 

Would  honor  him  with  wealth  some  golden  day. 

This  dream  he  carried  in  a  hopeful  spirit, 
Until  in  death  his  patient  eye  grew  dim, 

And  his  Redeemer  called  him  to  inherit 
The  heaven  of  wealth  long  garnered  up  for  him. 

So,  if  I  ever  win  a  home  in  heaven 

For  whose  sweet  rest  I  humbly  hope  and  pray, 
In  the  great  company  of  the  forgiven 

I  shall  be  sure  to  find  old  Daniel  Gray. 

JosiAH  Gilbert  Holland, 


|f 


PARTED  FRIENDS. 

RIEND  after  friend  departs. 

Who  hath  not  lost  a  friend  ? 

There  is  no  union  here  of  hearts 

That  finds  not  here  an  end  ! 

Were  this  frail  world  our  final  rest, 

Living  or  dying  none  were  blest 

Beyond  the  flight  of  time — 
Beyond  the  reign  of  death — 

There  surely  is  some  blessed  clime 
Where  life  is  not  a  breath  ; 

Nor  life's  affections  transient  fire, 

Whose  sparks  fly  upward  and  expire  1 

There  is  a  world  above 
Where  parting  is  unknown ! 

A  long  eternity  of  love, 

Formed  for  the  good  alone  ; 

And  faith  beholds  the  dying  here 

Translated  to  that  glorious  sphere ! 


RELIGIOUS   LIFE. 


387 


Thus  star  by  star  declines 

Till  all  are  passed  away  ; 
As  morning  high  and  higher  shines 

To  pure  and  perfect  day  ; 
Nor  sink  those  stars  in  empty  night, 
But  hide  themselves  in  heaven's  own  light 

James  Montgomery. 


p 


HOLD 


STILL" 


AIN'S  furnace-heat  within  me  quivers, 

God's  breath  upon  the  flame  doth  blow, 
And  all  my  heart  within  me  shivers 
And  trembles  at  the  fiery  glow  ; 

And  yet  I  whisper — "As  God  will  1 " 

And  in  the  hottest  fire,  hold  still. 

He  comes  and  lays  my  heart,  all  heated, 

On  the  hard  anvil,  minded  so 
Into  His  own  fair  shape  to  beat  it, 

With  His  own  hammer,  blow  on  blow ; 
And  yet  I  whisper — "As  God  will !  " 
And  at  His  heaviest  blows,  hold  still. 

He  takes  my  softened  heart,  and  beats  it — 
The  sparks  fly  off  at  every  blow  : 

He  turns  it  o'er  and  o'er,  and  heats  it, 
And  lets  it  cool,  and  makes  it  glow  ; 

And  yet  I  whisper — "As  God  will ! " 

And  in  the  mighty  hand,  hold  still. 

Why  should  I  murmur?  for  the  sorrow 
Thus  only  longer  lived  would  be ; 

Its  end  may  come,  and  will,  to-morrow, 
When  God  has  done  His  work  in  me. 

So  I  say,  trusting — "  As  God  will !  " 

And  trusting  to  the  end,  hold  still. 

He  kindles  for  my  profit  purely 
Affliction's  glowing,  fiery  brand, 

And  all  His  heaviest  blows  are  surely 
Inflicted  by  a  Master's  hand  ; 

So  I  say,  praying,  "As  God  will !  " 

And  hope  in  Him  and  suffer  still. 


THL  DEW-DROP  AND  THE  STREAM. 


Thy  luster  with  a  gem  might  vie, 
While  trembling  in  its  purple  eye." 

"  Ay,  you  may  well  rejoice,  'tis  true," 
Replied  the  radiant  drop  of  dew  ; 

"  You  will,  no  doubt,  as  on  you  move. 
To  flocks  and  herds  a  blessing  prove; 
But  when  the  sun  ascends  on  high, 
Its  beam  will  draw  me  to  the  sky  ; 
And  I  must  own  my  little  power — 
I've  but  refreshed  a  humble  flower." 

'  Hold  !  "  cried  the  stream,  "nor  thus  repine; 
For  well 't  is  known,  a  power  divine, 
Subservient  to  His  will  supreme. 
Has  made  the  dew-drop  and  the  stream. 
Though  small  thou  art — I  that  allow — 
No  mark  of  Heaven's  contempt  art  thou ; 
Thou  hast  refreshed  a  humble  flower, 
And  done  according  to  thy  power." 

All  things  that  are,  both  great  and  small. 
One  glorious  Author  formed  them  all ; 
This  thought  may  all  repinings  quell — 
Who  serves  His  purpose  serves  Him  well. 


a 


GENTLE  stream  whose  pathway  lay 
Through  flowery  meads  and  woodlands  gay, 
Beheld,  one  morn,  a  dew-drop  shed 
Its  luster  on  a  violet's  head ; 
And,  with  the  charming  sight  impressed, 
It  thus  the  sparkling  pearl  addressed  : — 


'Sure,  little  drop,  rejoice  we  may, 
For  all  is  beautiful  and  gay  ; 
Creation  wears  her  emerald  dress, 
And  smiles  in  all  her  loveliness  ; 
And  with  delight  and  pride  I  see 
The  little  flower  bedecked  by  thee. 


MY   HOME. 

V]    'W'O  little  maidens  went  one  day 
C(m\     ^"^*^  ^^^^  shady  grove  to  play  ; 
V^     And  while  with  moss  and  acorn  cup, 
*!*        They  built  a  fairy  palace  up. 
And  laughing,  crowned  their  curling  hair 
With  chestnut  leaves  and  flowers  fair, 
And  old  man  chanced  to  pass  that  way, 
And  sat  him  down  to  see  their  play. 

They  did  not  fear  the  aged  man. 

But  bade  him  watch  their  palace  fair ; 
Told  him  of  many  a  childish  plan. 

And  showed  the  garlands  on  their  hair. 
He  kissed  each  merry,  laughing  child, 
And  at  their  pleasant  prattle  smiled  ; 
He  said,  "  Sweet  girls,  where  do  you  dwell- 
Where  are  your  homes  ?  I  pray  you  cell !  " 

One  said,  ''  I  dwell  below  the  hill, 
Near  by  the  water-fa'l  and  mill ; 
Around  the  stoop  t  he  creeper  grows, 
Near  by  our  house  the  river  flows  ; 
There  on  its  banks  I  ofttn  sit. 
And  watch  the  sailing  vessels  flit 
Like  birds  across  tha  waters  blue  ; 
See  through  those  trees — it  is  in  view." 

'My  home  is  in  the  city,  sir," 

The  other  said  with  gentle  air ; 
"Our  windows  look,  like  great  eyes,  down 
Upon  the  grim  and  dusty  street ; 
I  do  not  like  the  noisy  town, 
The  roll  of  wheels  and  tramp  of  feet ; 


388 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


I  like  the  free,  fresh  country'  air, 
The  trees,  the  fields,  the  flowers  fair. 
But  let  us  know,  kind  sir,  I  pray. 
About  your  home — is  't  far  away  ?  " 

The  old  man  bent  his  silvered  head. 
Then  raised  his  face,  and  smiling,  said  : 
'  I  have  a  home  of  wealth  untold. 
The  streets  are  paved  with  shining  gold  ; 
The  city  gates  a;  e  brilliant  pearls. 
Did  you  e'er  hear  of  it,  sweet  girls  ? 
There  is  no  night  in  that  fair  land, 
Life,  joy,  and  peace  walk  hand  in  hand  : 
No  death,  no  sorrow,  enters  there. 
No  cries  are  heard  of  pain  or  care — 
My  home  is  heaven." 

BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE. 

|IRDS,  joyous  birds  of  the  wandering  wing! 
Whence  is   it  ye   come  with   the  flowers  of 
spring  ? 

"We  come  from  the  shores  of  the  green  old  Nile, 
From  the  land  where  the  roses  of  Sharon  smile, 
From  the  palms  that  wave  through  the  Indian  sky, 
From  the  myrrh-trees  of  glowing  Araby. 

"We  have  swept  o'er  the  cities  in  song  renowned  ; 

Silent  they  lie,  with  the  deserts  around, 

We  have  crossed  proud  rivers,  whose  tide  hath  rolled 

All  dark  with  the  warrior- blood  of  old  ; 

And  each  worn  wing  hath  regained  its  home, 

Under  peasant's  roof-tree,  or  monarch's  dome." 

And  what  have  ye  found  in  the  monarch's  dome, 
Since  last  ye  traversed  the  blue  sea's  foam  ? 
"  We  have  found  a  change,  we  have  found  a  pall, 
And  a  gloom  o'ershadowing  the  banquet-hall, 
And  a  mark  on  the  floor  as  of  life-drop  spilt ; 
Naught  looks  the  same,  save  the  nest  we  built !" 

O  joyous  birds,  it  hath  still  been  so  ; 
Through  the  halls  of  kings  doth  the  tempest  go ! 
But  the  huts  of  the  hamlet  lie  still  and  deep. 
And  the  hills  o'er  their  quiet  a  vigil  keep. 
Say,  what  have  ye  found  in  the  peasant's  cot, 
Since  last  ye  parted  from  that  sweet  spot  ? 

"A  chang3  we  have  found  there — and  many  a  change  ! 

Faces  and  footsteps,  and  all  things  strange ! 

Gone  are  the  heads  of  the  silvery  hair. 

And  the  young  that  were,  have  a  brow  of  care, 

And  the  place  is  hushed  where  the  children  played ; 

Naught  looks  the  same,  save  the  nest  we  made  !" 

Sad  is  your  tale  of  the  beautiful  earth. 
Birds  that  o'er-sweep  it,  in  power  and  mirth  • 
Yet  through  the  wastes  of  the  trackless  air 
Ye  have  a  Guide,  and  shall  we  despair  ? 
Ye  over  desert  and  deep  have  passed  ; 
So  may  we  reach  our  bright  home  at  last. 

Felicia  Dorothea  Hemans. 


GIVING  AND  LIVING. 

OREVER  the  sun  is  pouring  his  gold 

On  a  hundred  worlds  that  beg  and  borrow ; 
His  warmth  he  squanders  on  summits  cold. 
His  wealth,  on  the  homes  of  want  and  sor- 
row. 
To  withhold  his  largess  of  precious  light 
Is  to  bury  himself  in  eternal  night  : 

To  give  is  to  live. 

The  flower  shines  not  for  itself  at  all. 

Its  joy  is  the  joy  it  freely  diffuses  ; 
Of  beauty  and  balm  it  is  prodigal. 

And  it  lives  in  the  life  it  sweetly  loses. 
No  choice  for  the  rose  but  glory  or  doom — 
To  exhale  or  smother,  to  wither  or  bloom : 

To  deny  is  to  die. 

The  seas  lend  silvery  rain  to  the  land. 
The  land  its  sapphire  streams  to  the  ocean  ; 

The  heart  sends  blood  to  the  brain  of  command. 
The  brain  to  the  heart  its  constant  motion  ; 

And  over  and  over  we  yield  our  breath — 

Till  the  mirror  is  dry  and  images  death  : 

To  live  is  to  give. 

He  is  dead  whose  hand  is  not  opened  wide 

To  help  the  need  of  sister  or  brother  ; 
He  doubles  the  worth  of  his  life-long  ride 

Who  gives  his  fortunate  place  to  another; 
Not  one,  but  a  thousand  lives  are  his 
Who  carries  the  world  in  his  sympathies  : 

To  deny  is  to  die. 

Throw  gold  to  the  far-dispersing  wave. 
And  your  ships  sail  home  with  tons  of  treasure ; 

Care  not  for  comfort,  all  hardships  brave. 
And  evening  and  age  shall  sup  with  pleasure  ; 

Fling  health  to  the  sunshine,  wind,  and  rain, 

And  roses  shall  come  to  the  cheek  again  : 

To  give  is  to  live. 


NOTHING  IS  LOST. 

OTHING  is  lost :  the  drop  of  dew 

That  trembles  on  the  leaf  or  flower. 
Is  but  exhaled  to  fall  anew 
In  summers  thunder  shower ; 
Perchance  to  shine  within  the  bow 
That  fronts  the  sun  at  fall  of  day, 
Perchance  to  sparkle  in  the  flow 
Of  fountain  far  away. 

So  with  our  words — or  harsh,  or  kind — 

Uttered,  they  are  not  all  forgot ; 
They  leave  their  influence  on  the  mind, 

Pass  on,  but  perish  not '. 
As  they  are  spoken,  so  they  fall 

Upon  the  spirit  spoken  to — 
Scorch  it  like  drops  of  burning  gall, 

Or  soothe  like  honey-dew. 


RELIGIOUS   LIFE. 


389 


So  with  our  deeds — for  good  or  ill 

They  have  their  power,  scarce  understood  ; 
Then  let  us  use  our  better  will 

To  make  them  rife  with  good. 
Like  circles  on  a  lake  they  go, 

Ring  beyond  ring,  and  never  stay. 
O  that  our  deeds  were  fashioned  so 

That  they  might  bless  alway  ! 


THE  MAIDEN'S  PRAYER. 

■  HE  rose  from  her  delicious  sleep, 

And  put  away  her  soft  brown  hair, 
And  in  a  tone  as  low  and  deep 
As  love's  first  whisper,  breathed  a  prayer  ; 
Her  snow-white  hands  together  pressed, 

Her  blue  eyes  sheltered  in  the  lid. 
The  folded  linen  on  her  breast 
Just  swelling  with  the  charms  it  hid. 

And  from  her  long  and  flowing  dress 

Escaped  a  bare  and  snowy  foot, 
Whose  step  upon  the  earth  did  press 

Like  a  sweet  snow-flake  soft  and  mute  ; 
And  then  from  slumber  chaste  and  warm, 

Like  a  young  spirit  fresh  from  heaven. 
She  bowed  that  young  and  matchless  form  ; 

And  humbly  prayed  to  be  forgiven. 

Oh,  God  !  if  souls  as  pure  as  these 
Need  daily  mercy  from  Thy  throne — 

If  she  upon  her  bended  knee. 
Our  holiest  and  our  purest  one — 

She  with  a  face  so  clear  and  bright 
We  deem  her  some  stray  child  of  light ; 

If  she,  wiih  these  soft  eyes  and  tears, 
Day  after  day  in  her  young  years, 

Must  kneel  and  pray  for  grace  from  Thee, 
How  hardly  if  she  win  not  heaven 
Will  our  wild  errors  be  forgiven  ! 

Nathaniel  Parker  Willis. 


ft 


Of^WARD. 

OT,  my  soul,  what  thou  hast  done. 
But  what  thou  now  art  doing  ; 
Not  the  course  which  thou  hast  run, 
But  that  which  thou'rt  pursuing  ; 
Not  the  prize  already  won, 

Bat  that  which  thou  art  wooing  ; 

Thy  progression,  not  thy  rest ; 

Striving,  not  attaining — 
Is  the  measure  and  the  test 

Of  thy  hope  remaining. 
Not  in  gain  art  thou  so  blest 

As  in  conscious  gaining. 

If  thou  to  the  past  wilt  go, 
Of  experience  learning, 


Faults  and  follies  it  can  show, 

Wisdom  dearly  earning ; 
But  the  path  once  trodden,  know, 

Hath  no  more  returning. 

Let  not  thy  good  hope  depart, 

Sit  not  down  bewailing  ; 
Rouse  thy  strength  anew,  brave  heart ! 

'Neath  despair's  assailing  : 
This  will  give  thee  fairer  start — 

Knowledge  of  thy  failing. 

Yet  shall  ever>'  rampant  wrong 

In  the  dust  be  lying  ; 
Soon  thy  foes,  though  proud  and  strong. 

In  defeat  be  flying  ; 
Then  shall  a  triumphant  song 

Take  the  place  of  sighing. 

J.  K.  Lombard. 

WE'VE  ALL  OUR  ANGEL  SIDE. 

'HE  huge,  rough  stones  from  out  the  mine, 
Unsightly  and  unfair. 
Have  veins  of  purest  metal  hid 
Beneath  the  surface  there. 
Few  rocks  so  bare  but  to  their  hights 

Some  tiny  moss-plant  clings  ; 
And  on  the  peaks  so  desolate. 
The  sea-bird  sits  and  sings. 
Believe  me,  too,  that  rugged  souls, 

Beneath  their  rudeness,  hide 
Much  that  is  beautiful  and  good — 
We've  all  our  angel  side. 

In  all  there  is  an  inner  depth, 

A  far-off,  secret  way, 
Wliere,  t!  rough  the  windows  of  the  soul, 

God  sends  His  smiling  ray. 
In  every  human  heart  there  is 

A  faithful,  sounding  chord 
That  may  be  struck,  unknown  to  us. 

By  some  sweet,  loving  word. 
The  wayward  will  in  man  may  try 

Its  softer  thoughts  to  hide — 
Some  unexpected  tone  reveals 

It  has  an  angel  side. 

Despised,  and  lone,  and  trodden  down. 

Dark  with  the  shades  of  sin, 
Deciphering  not  those  halo-lights 

Which  God  has  lit  within  ; 
Groping  about  in  endless  night. 

Poor,  poisoned  souls  they  are. 
Who  guess  not  what  life's  meaning  is 

Nor  dream  of  heaven  afar. 
O  that  some  gentle  hand  of  love 

Their  stumbling  steps  would  guide, 
And  show  them  that,  amidst  it  all. 

Life  has  its  angel  side  ! 


390 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


Brutal,  and  mean,  and  dark  enough, 

God  knows  some  natures  are  ; 
But  He,  compassionate,  comes  near. 

And  shall  we  stand  afar? 
Our  cruse  of  oil  will  not  grow  less 

If  shared  with  hearty  hand  ; 
For  words  of  peace  and  looks  of  love 

Few  natures  can  withstand. 
Love  is  the  mighty  conqueror, 

Love  is  the  beauteous  guide, 
Love,  with  her  beaming  eyes,  can  see 

We've  all  our  angel  side. 


THE  BRIGHT  SIDE. 

'HERE  is  many  a  rest  in  the  road  of  life, 
If  we  only  would  stop  to  take  it, 
And  many  a  tone  from  the  better  land, 
If  the  querulous  heart  would  wake  it .' 
To  the  sunny  soul  that  is  full  of  hope. 

And  whose  beautiful  trust  ne'er  faileth. 
The  grass  is  green  and  the  flowers  are  bright, 
Though  the  wintry  storm  prevaileth. 

Better  to  hope,  though  the  clouds  hang  low, 

And  to  keep  the  eyes  sliil  lifted ; 
For  the  sweet  blue  sky  will  soon  peep  through, 

When  the  ominous  clouds  are  rifted  ! 
There  was  never  a  night  without  a  day, 

Or  an  evening  without  a  morning ; 
And  the  darkest  hour,  as  the  proverb  goes. 

Is  the  hour  before  the  dawning. 

There  is  many  a  gem  in  the  path  of  life, 

Which  we  pass  in  our  idle  pleasure. 
That  is  richer  far  than  the  jeweled  crown, 

Or  the  miser's  hoarded  treasure  : 
It  may  be  the  love  of  a  little  child, 

Or  a-  mother's  prayers  to  Heavjn  ; 
Or  only  a  beggar's  grateful  thanks 

For  a  cup  of  water  given. 

Better  to  weave  in  the  web  of  life 

A  bright  and  golden  filling, 
And  do  God's  will  with  a  ready  heart 

And  hands  that  are  swift  and  willing, 
Than  to  snap  the  delicate,  slender  threads 

Of  our  curious  lives  asunder, 
And  then  blame  heaven  for  the  tangled  ends. 

And  sit  and  grieve  and  wonder. 


CARVING  A  NAME. 

WROTE  my  name  upon  the  sand. 
And  trusted  it  would  stand  for  aye; 
But  soon,  alas  !  the  refluent  sea 
Had  washed  my  feeble  lines  away. 

I  carved  my  name  upon  the  wood. 
And,  after  years,  returned  again  ; 

I  missed  the  shadow  of  the  tree 
That  strct<.hed  of  old  upon  the  plain. 


To  solid  marble  next  my  name 

I  gave  as  a  perpetual  trust ; 
An  earthquake  rent  it  to  i's  bnse, 

And  now  it  lies  o'erlaid  with  dust 

All  these  have  filled.     In  wiser  mood 
I  turn  and  ask  myself,  "What  then? 

If  I  would  have  my  name  endure, 
I'll  write  it  on  the  hearts  of  men, 

'  In  characters  of  living  light, 

From  kindly  words  and  actions  wrought; 
And  these,  beyond  the  reach  of  time. 
Shall  live  immortal  as  my  thought." 

Horatio  Alger. 

THE  HARDEST  TIME  OF  ALL 

'HERE  are  days  of  deepest  sorrow 
In  the  season  of  our  life  ; 
There  are  wild,  despairing  moments  ; 
There  are  hours  of  mental  sti  ile. 
There  are  hours  of  stony  anguish. 

When  the  tears  refuse  to  fall ; 
But  the  waiting-time,  my  brothers. 
Is  the  hardest  time  of  all. 

Youth  and  love  are  oft  impatient, 

Seeking  things  beyond  their  reach  ; 
And  the  heart  grows  sick  with  hoping, 

Ere  it  learns  what  life  can  teach. 
For,  before  the  fruit  be  gathered. 

We  must  see  the  blossoms  fall ; 
And  the  waiting  time,  my  brothers. 

Is  the  hardest  time  of  all. 

We  can  bear  the  heat  of  conflict; 

Though  the  sudden,  crushing  blow. 
Beating  back  our  gathered  forces, 

For  a  moment  lay  us  low, 
We  may  rise  again  beneath  it, 

None  the  weaker  for  our  fall ; 
But  the  waiting-time,  my  brothers. 

Is  the  hardest  time  of  all. 

Yet.  at  last,  we  learn  the  lesson, 

That  God  knoweth  what  is  best, 
And  a  silent  resignation 

Makes  the  spirit  calm  and  blest : 
For,  perchance,  a  day  is  coming 

For  the  changes  of  our  fate. 
When  our  hearts  will  thank  Him  meekly 

That  He  taught  us  how  to  wait. 


MY  SHIPS. 

HAVE  ships  that  went  to  sea. 
Long  ago,  long  ago ; 
With  what  tidings  I  can  learn, 
I've  been  waiing  their  return. 
But  the  homeward  gales  for  me 
Never  blow,  never  blow. 


■:^- 


•«^'^^ 


RELIGIOUS   LIFE. 


391 


In  the  distance  they  are  seen 

On  the  deep,  on  the  deep, 
Plowinjj  through  the  swelling  tide, 
With  the  dim  stars  for  a  guide, 
While  the  angry  waves  between 

Never  sleep,  never  sleep. 

There  are  breakers  setting  in 

For  the  shore,  for  the  shore  ; 
And  it  may  be,  in  their  frown, 
That  my  ships  will  all  go  down, 
With  their  precious  freight  within. 

Evermore,  evermore. 

There  is  little  cheer  for  me, 

Waiting  so,  waiting  so ; 
Waiting  through  the  starless  night 
For  the  coming  of  the  light. 
For  my  ships  which  went  to  sea 

Long  ago,  long  ago. 

I've  a  ship  which  went  to  sea 

Years  ago,  years  ago. 
And  the  gallant  little  craft 
Beats  the  tempest  fore  and  aft, 
While  the  homeward  gales  to  me 

Ever  blow,  ever  blow. 

Little  heedeth  she  the  storm, 

Or  the  night,  or  die  night ; 
For  her  anchor  is  secure. 

And  her  timbers  will  endure 
Till  the  coming  of  the  morn. 

Pure  and  bright,  pure  and  bright 

Lone  and  weary  have  I  been — 

Who  can  tell,  who  can  tell? 
All  the  anguish  of  the  soul. 
While  the  billows  round  me  roll. 
Till  my  ships  come  sailing  in. 

Freighted  well,  freighted  weU. 

Then  I'll  keep  this  little  craft, 

Sailing  on,  sailing  on  ; 
She  will  bear  me  safely  o'er 
Far  beyond  the  billow's  roar. 
For  my  passage  is  secure. 

To  my  home,  to  my  home  ! 

J.  W.  Barker. 

UNDER  THE  SNOW. 

'HE  brown  old  earth  lies  quiet  and  stili 
Under  the  snow, 
The  furrows  are  hid  on  the  broken  hill 
"f*  Under  the  snow, 

Everything  is  fringed  with  mossy  pearl, 
The  drooping  cedars  bend  to  the  ground. 
The  rose-bush  is  drifted  into  a  mound. 
And  still  from  the  silent  sky  to  the  ground 
The  white  flakes  noiselessly  whirl. 


The  roads  and  fields  are  buried  deep 

Under  the  snow. 
The  hedges  lie  in  a  tangled  heap 

Under  the  snow. 
And  the  little  grey  rabbits  under  them  creep, 
Wliile  the  twittering  sparrows  cunningly  peep 
From  the  sheltering  briers,  and  cosily  sleep 

Under  the  snow. 

The  rough  old  barn  and  the  sheds  near  by. 
The  mounted  straw  of  the  wheat  and  rye. 

Are  covered  with  snow  ; 
The  straggling  fences  are  softened  with  down. 
Every  post  is  white,  with  a  beautiful  crown 

Of  drifted  snow. 

And  I  think,  as  I  sit  in  the  gloaming  here. 
Watching  the  objects  disappear, 
How  many  things  are  folded  low 
Under  the  drifts  of  the  falling  snow  ; 
There  are  hearts  that  once  were  full  of  love 

Under  the  snow ; 
There  are  eyes  that  glowed  with  the  soul  of  love 

Under  the  snow  ; 
There  are  faded  tresses  of  golden  hair ; 
There  are  locks  that  were  bleached  with  the  frost  of 

care; 
There  are  lips  that  once  were  like  the  rose  ; 
There  are  bosoms  that  once  were  stung  with  woes  ; 
There  are  breasts  that  once  were  true  and  strong  ; 
There  are  forms  that  once  were  praised  in  song : 
O,  there's  a  strange  and  mighty  throng 

Under  the  snow ! 

Another  mound  will  soon  lie  deep 

Under  the  snow. 
And  I  shall  with  the  pale  ones  sleep 

Under  the  snow. 

0  God !  stream  on  my  soul  Thy  grace, 
That  in  the  love- light  of  Thy  face 

1  may  rejoice,  when  death  shall  place 
My  pulseless  heart  and  body  low 

Under  the  snow  ! 

John  H.  Bonner. 

WRITING  WITH  DIAMONDS. 

LITTLE  child,  beside  the  widow-pane. 

Held  in  his  hand  a  diamond,    pure  an;i 
bright. 

And  saw  in  every  clear  and  burning  plane 
A  mirrored  rainbow,  trembling  in  the  ligl it. 

Across  the  pane  he  drew  the  tiny  stone. 
And,  smiling,  watched  the  dainty,  penciled  line, 

Till  on  the  smooth  and  polished  surface  shone 
A  boyish  thought  in  letters  crystalline. 

"  Not  there,  my  son  !  not  there,"  his  father  said. 
And,  stooping  down,  he  took  the  jeweled  ring  ; 

Then,  turning  from  the  glass  with  eyes  dismayed, 
The  boy  looked  up  with  eager  questioning. 


Q 


,jm^ 


892 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


"  Not  there,  my  child  !  though  every  word  appear 

As  threaded  silver  shining  in  the  sun. 
The  jewel-point  has  left  it  crisp  and  clear  ; 

The  diamond's  work  can  never  be  undone. 

'  Thine  eye  may  weary,  but  the  line  must  stand  ; 
Thy  thought  may  change,  but  here   'tis  traced  in 
light; 
The  fairest  touches  wrought  by  childish  hand 
May  yet  ofiend  thy  manhood's  fairer  sight. 

"  Nay,  school  thy  hand,  and  wait  a  future  day. 
When  thou  may'st  write  with  bolder  mastery  : 

Give  not  this  gem  to  fancy's  careless  play  ; 
'Tis  but  for  Him  who  wields  it  thoughtfully." 

O  daily  life  !  thy  fair  and  crystal  page 
By  erring  hands  is  written  o'er  and  o'er, 

In  deeds  that  live  beyond  the  present  age, 
In  characters  that  stand  for  evermore. 

We  cannot  pause.     'T  is  not  for  human  will 
To  check  the  pen  or  shun  its  solemn  trust ; 

But  living  souls,  discerning  good  and  ill. 
May  leave  their  records  beautiful  and  just. 

The  immortal  truth  demands  each  thoughtful  hour, 
Our  work  must  live  tlirough  all  futurity  ; 

The  highest  glory  born  of  conscious  power 
Is  but  for  him  who  wields  it  reverently. 


GOING  AND  COMING. 

,OING — the  great  round  sun. 
Dragging  the  captive  day 
Over  beyond  the  frowning  hill, 
Over  beyond  the  bay — 
Dying : 
Coming — the  dusky  night. 

Silently  stealing  in. 
Wrapping  himself  in  the  soft,  warm  couch, 
Where  the  golden-haired  day  hath  been 
Lying. 

Going — the  bright,  blithe  spring. 

Blossoms  !  how  fast  ye  fall. 
Shooting  out  of  your  starry  sky 

Into  the  darkness  all 

Blindly ! 

Coming — the  mellow  days, 

Crimson  and  yellow  leaves  ; 
Languishing  purple  and  amber  fruits, 

Kissing  the  bearded  sheaves 
Kindly. 

Going — our  early  friends. 

Voices  we  loved  are  dumb; 
Footsteps  grow  dim  in  the  morning  dew ; 

Fainter  the  echoes  come 
Ringing : 


Coming  to  join  our  march, 
Shoulder  to  shoulder  pn  ssed. 

Gray-haired  veterans  strike  their  tents 
For  the  far-off  purple  West — 
Singing. 

Going — this  old,  old  life. 

Beautiful  world,  farewell ! 
Forest  and  meadow,  river  and  hill. 
Ring  ye  a  loving  knell 
O'er  us ! 
Coming — a  noble  life ; 

Coming — a  better  land ; 
Coming — a  long,  long,  nightless  day ; 
Coming — the  grand,  grand 
Chorus ! 

Edward  A. 


Jenks. 


TOLL,  THEN,  NO  MORE. 


OLL  for  the  dead,  toll !  toll ! 

No,  no  !    Ring  out,  ye  bells,  ring  out  and 
shout ! 

"f*       For  the  pearly  gates  they  have  entered  in, 
And  they  no  more  shall  sin — 
Ring  out,  ye  bells,  ring  !  ring  ! 

Toll  for  the  living,  toll !  toll ! 

No,  no  !     Ring  out,  ye  bells,  ring  out  and  shout ! 
For  they  do  His  work  'mid  toil  and  din — 

They,  too,  thy  goal  shall  win — 
Ring  out,  ye  bells,  ring  !  ring  I 

Toll  for  the  coming,  toll !  toll ! 

No,  no  !     Ring  out,  ye  bells,  ring  out  and  shout ! 
For  't  is  theirs  to  conquer,  theirs  to  win 

The  final  entering  in — 
Ring  out,  ye  bells,  ring  !  ring  1 

Toll,  then,  no  more,  ye  bells  ! 

No,  no  I    Ring  out,  O  bells,  ring  out  and  shout ! 
The  Was,  the  Is,  the  Shall  Be,  and  all  men 

Are  in  His  hand  I    Amen  I 
Ring  out,  ye  bells,  ring !  ring  ! 

R.    R.  BOWKER. 

TOO  LATE. 

'OO  late,  too  late,  was  never  said 

Of  morning  sun,  or  bud,  or  flower  : 
The  light  is  true  to  hill  and  glade, 
■^  The  rose-bud  opens  to  the  hour. 

The  lark  ne'er  asks  the  day  to  wait ; 
But  man  awakes  "  too  late,  too  late  ! " 

Too  late,  too  late,  our  anger  burns ; 

The  sun  goes  down  before  the  flame 
To  gentle  words  of  kindness  turns. 

And  we  are  scourged  with  inward  shame, 
To  think  our  breasts  have  harbored  hate. 

And  pride  bows  down  too  late,  too  late  I 


RELIGIOUS   LIFE. 


393 


*'  Too  late,  too  late  ! "  the  poor  man  cries  ; 

He  asks  his  right,  the  court  delays, 
Till  ruin  comes  in  fearful  guise. 

In  vain  he  pleads,  in  vain  he  praj'S ; 
The  law  requires  too  much  debate, 

And  justice  comes  too  late,  too  late  1 

*'Too  late,  too  late  !  "  who  has  not  said? 
The  mail  has  closed — the  train  is  gone — 
The  time  has  fled — the  debt  not  paid — 

The  aid  not  sought — the  work  not  done  : 
Neglect  makes  up  life's  weary  freight, 
And  then  we  cry,  "  Too  late,  too  late  ! " 

James  Weston. 


O 


THE  TWO  WEAVERS. 

S  at  their  work  two  weavers  sat, 
Beguiling  time  with  friendly  chat, 
They  touched  upon  the  price  of  meat, 
So  high,  a  weaver  scarce  could  eat. 


"What  with  my  brats  and  sickly  wife," 
Quoth  Dick,  "  I'm  almost  tired  of  life ; 
So  hard  my  work,  so  poor  my  fare, 
'Tis  more  than  mortal  man  can  bear. 

"How  glorious  is  the  rich  man's  state  ! 
His  house  so  fine,  his  wealth  so  great ! 
Heaven  is  unjust,  you  must  agree  ; 
Why  all  to  him  ?    Why  none  to  me  ? 

"  In  spite  of  what  the  Scripture  teaches, 
In  spite  of  all  the  parson  preaches. 
This  world  (indeed  I've  thought  so  long) 
Is  ruled,  methinks,  extrenjely  wrong. 

"Where'er  I  look,  howe'er  I  range, 
'Tis  all  confused  and  hard  and  strange ; 
The  good  are  troubled  and  oppressed, 
And  all  the  wicked  are  the  blessed." 

Quoth  John,  "Our  ignorance  is  the  cause 
Why  thus  we  blame  our  Maker's  laws ; 
Parts  of  His  ways  alone  we  know  ; 
'Tis  all  that  man  can  see  below. 

"See'st  thou  that  carpet,  not  half  done, 
Which  thou,  dear  Dick,  hast  well  begun? 
Behold  the  wild  confusion  there, 
So  rude  the  mass  it  makes  one  stare  ! 

"A  stranger,  ignorant  of  the  trade, 
Would  say,  no  meaning's  there  conveyed  ; 
For  Where's  the  middle?  where's  the  border? 
Thy  carpet  now  is  all  disorder." 

Quoth  Dick,  "My  work  is  yet  in  bits, 
But  still  in  every  part  it  fits ; 
Besides,  you  reason  like  a  lout — 
Why,  man,  that  carpet's  inside  out." 


Says  John,  "Thou  say'st  the  thing  I  mean, 
And  now  I  hope  to  cure  thy  spleen  ; 
This  world,  which  clouds  thy  soul  with  doubt, 
Is  but  a  carpet  inside  out. 

"As  when  we  view  these  shreds  and  ends. 
We  know  not  what  the  whole  intends  ; 
So,  when  on  earth  things  look  but  odd. 
They're  working  still  some  scheme  of  God. 

' '  No  plan,  no  pattern,  can  we  trace ; 
All  wants  proportion,  truth,  and  grace ; 
The  motley  mixture  we  deride. 
Nor  see  the  beauteous  upper  side. 

"  But  when  we  reach  that  world  of  light, 
And  view  those  works  of  God  aright, 
Then  shall  we  see  the  whole  design, 
And  own  the  workman  is  divine. 

"What  now  seem  random  strokes,  will  there 
All  order  and  design  appear  ; 
Then  shall  we  praise  what  here  we  spumed, 
For  then  the  carpet  shall  be  turned." 

"Thou'rt  right,"  quoth  Dick  ;  "  no  more  I'll  grumble 
That  this  sad  world's  so  strange  a  jumble  ; 
My  impious  doubts  are  put  to  flight. 
For  my  own  carpet  sets  me  right." 

Hannah  More. 

FIELD  LILIES. 

/^  ILY  bells  !  lily  bells !  swinging  and  ringing 
■^*  I*        Sweet  golden  bells  on  the  still  summer  air, 
■^^     Are  ye  calling  the  birds  to  their  matins  of 
singing, 
Summoning  nature  to  worship  and  prayer? 

Lily  bells  !  lily  bells  !  daintily  swaying, 
Poising  your  petals  like  butterflies'  wings. 

As  the  breeze  murmurs  round  you,  pray,  what  is  he 
saying  ? 
Is  he  whispering  love-words  and  soft,  pretty  things? 

Lily  bells  !  lily  bells !  'mid  the  long  grasses 
Gleaming  like  sunbeams  in  still  shady  bower, 

Have  you  stolen  your  gold  from  the  sun  as  he  passes  ? 
Are  ye  guarding  your  treasure  in  bud  and  in  flower  ? 

Lily  bells  1  lily  bells  !  bowing  and  bending. 

Are  ye  nodding  a  welcome  to  me  as  I  go? 
Do  ye  know  that  my  heart  bears  a  love  never-ending 

For  bright  golden  lily-bells  all  in  a  row  ? 

Lily  bells  !  lily  bells  !  down  in  the  meadows, 
As  I  see  your  fair  forms  'mid  the  mosses  and  brake. 

My  heart  wanders  back  to  the  past,  with  its  shadows, 
To  Christ,  and  the  wise,  loving  words  that  He  spake. 

"  Consider  the  lilies" — yes,  this  was  His  teaching, 
"  The  modest  field-lilies  that  toil  not  nor  spin, 

Yet  even  to  them  is  my  loving  care  reaching. 
My  heart  takes  the  feeblest  and  lowliest  in." 


394 


CROWN   JEWELS. 


Lily  bells  !  lily  bells  !  waving  and  swinging, 
If  Jesus,  my  Master,  can  watch  over  you, 

I'll  go  to  Him  daily,  with  gladness  and  singing, 
Believing  He'll  love  me  and  care  for  me  too. 

Lily  bells  !  lily  bells !  bending  and  swaying. 

Ring  out  your  sweet  peals  on  the  still  summer  air  ; 
I  would  ye  might  lure  all  to  trusting  and  praying, 

And  teach  them  sweet  lessons  of  God's  loving  care. 


THE  WAY  TO  HEAVEN. 

*EAVEN  is  not  gained  at  a  single  bound  ; 

But  we  build  the  ladder  by  which  we  rise 
From  the  lowly  earth  to  the  vaulted  skies, 
And  we  mount  to  its  summit  round  by  round. 

I  count  this  thing  to  be  grandly  true, 
That  a  noble  deed  is  a  sttp  towards  God — 
Lifting  the  soul  from  the  common  sod 

To  purer  air  and  broader  view. 

We  rise  by  things  that  are  'neath  our  feet ; 

By  what  we  have  mastered  of  good  and  gain  ; 

By  the  pride  deposed  and  the  passion  slain, 
And  the  vanquished  ills  that  we  hourly  meet. 

We  hope,  we  aspire,  we  resolve,  we  trust. 
When  the  morning  calls  us  to  life  and  light, 
But  our  hearts  grow  weary,  and,  ere  the  night 

Our  lives  are  trailing  the  sordid  dust. 

We  hope,  we  resolve,  we  aspire,  we  pray. 

And  we  think  that  we  mount  the  air  on  wings 
Beyond  the  recall  of  sensual  things, 

While  our  feet  still  cling  to  the  heavy  clay. 

Wings  for  the  angels,  but  feet  for  the  men  • 
We  may  borrow  the  wings  to  find  the  way — 
We  may  hope  and  resolve  and  aspire  and  pray, 

But  our  feet  must  rise,  or  we  fall  again. 

Only  in  dreams  is  a  ladder  thrown 

From  the  weary  earth  to  the  sapphire  walls  ; 

But  the  dreams  depart,  and  the  vision  falls, 
And  the  sleeper  wakes  on  his  pillow  of  stone. 

Heaven  is  not  reached  at  a  single  bound  ; 
But  we  build  the  ladder  by  which  we  rise 
From  the  lowly  earth  to  the  vaulted  skies. 

And  we  mount  to  its  summit  round  by  round. 

JosiAH  Gilbert  Holland. 

THREE  WORDS  OF  STRENGTH. 

HERE  are  three  lessons  I  would  write — 
Three  words,  as  with  a  burning  pen, 
In  tracings  of  eternal  light, 
Upon  the  hearts  of  men. 

Have  hope.     Though  clouds  environ  round, 
And  gladness  hides  her  face  in  scorn, 


Put  off  the  shadow  from  thy  brow — 
No  night  but  hath  its  morn. 

Have  faith.     Where'er  thy  bark  is  driven — 
The  calm's  disport,  tlie  tempest's  mirth- 
Know  this  :  God  rules  the  hosts  of  heaven. 
The  inhabitants  of  earth. 

Have  love.     Not  love  alone,  for  one  ; 

But  man,  as  man,  thy  brother  call ; 
And  scatter,  like  the  circling  sun. 

Thy  charities  on  all. 

Thus  grave  these  lessons  on  thy  soul — 
Hope,  faith,  and  love — and  tliou  shalt  find 

Strength  when  life's  surges  rudest  roll, 
Light  when  thou  else  wert  blind. 

Frederick  Schiller 


THE  NAUTILUS  AND  THE  AMMONITE, 

'HE  nautilus  and  the  ammonite 

Were  launched  in  friendly  strife  ; 
Each  sent  to  float,  in  its  tiny  boat, 
*!*  On  the  wild,  wild  sea  of  life. 

For  each  could  swim  on  the  ocean's  brim, 

And  when  wearied  its  sail  could  furl, 
And  sink  to  sleep  in  the  great  sea  deep. 
In  its  palace  all  of  pearl. 

And  theirs  was  a  bliss  more  fair  than  this 

Which  we  taste  in  our  colder  clime  ; 
For  they  were  rife  in  tropic  life — 

A  brighter  and  better  clime. 
They  swam  'mid  isles  whose  summer  smiles 

Were  dimmed  by  no  alloy ; 
Whose  groves  were  palm,  whose  air  was  balm, 

And  life — one  only  joy  ! 

They  sailed  all  day  through  creek  and  bay, 

And  traversed  the  ocean  deep  ; 
And  at  night  they  sank  on  a  coral  bank, 

In  its  fairy  bowers  to  sleep. 
And  the  monsters  vast  of  ages  past 

They  beheld  in  their  ocean-caves  ; 
They  saw  them  ride  in  their  power  and  pride, 

And  sink  in  their  deep  sea-graves. 

And  hand  in  hand,  from  strand  to  strand, 

They  sailed  in  mirth  and  glee  ; 
These  fairy  shells,  with  their  crystal  cells. 

Twin  sisters  of  the  sea. 
And  they  came  at  last  to  a  sea  long  past, 

But  as  they  reached  its  shore, 
The  Almighty's  breath  spoke  out  in  death. 

And  the  ammonite  lived  no  more. 

So  the  nautilus  now,  in  its  shelly  prow, 

As  over  the  deep  it  strays. 
Still  seems  to  seek,  in  bay  and  creek 

Its  companion  of  other  days. 


RELIGIOUS   LIFE. 


395 


And  alike  do  we,  on  life's  stormy  sea, 

As  we  roam  from  shore  to  shore, 
Thus  tempest-tossed,  seek  the  loved,  the  lost. 

But  find  them  on  earth  no  more. 
Yet  the  hope,  how  sweet,  again  to  meet, 

As  we  look  to  a  distant  strand ; 
When  heart  meets  heart,  and  no  more  they  part, 

Who  meet  in  that  better  land. 

G.  F.  Richardson. 


THE  NEW  JERUSALEM. 

MOTHER  dear,  Jerusalem, 
When  shall  I  come  to  thee  ? 
When  shall  my  sorrows  have  an  end- 
Thy  joys  when  shall  I  see? 


O  happy  harbor  of  God's  saints ! 

O  sweet  and  pkasant  soil ! 
In  thee  no  sorrow  can  be  found. 

Nor  grief,  nor  care,  nor  toil. 

No  dimly  cloud  o'ershadows  thee, 
Nor  gloom,  nor  darksome  night ; 

But  every  soul  shines  as  the  sun, 
For  God  himself  gives  light. 

Thy  walls  are  made  of  precious  stone. 

Thy  bulwarks  diamond-square, 
Thy  gates  are  all  of  orient  pearl — 

O  God  !  if  I  were  there  ! 

O  my  sweet  home,  Jerusalem  ! 

Thy  joys  when  shall  I  see? 
The  King  situng  upon  tliy  throne, 

And  thy  felicity? 

Thy  gardens  and  thy  goodly  walks 

Continually  are  green, 
Where  grow  such  sweet  and  pleasant  flowers 

As  nowhere  else  are  seen. 

Quite  through  the  streets  with  pleasing  sound 

The  flood  of  life  doth  flow  ; 
And  on  the  banks,  on  every  side. 

The  trees  of  life  do  grow. 

These  trees  each  month  yield  ripened  fruit ; 

Forevermore  they  spring, 
And  all  the  nations  of  the  earth 

To  thee  their  honors  bring. 


Jerusalem,  God's  dwelling-place, 
Full  sore  I  long  to  see  ; 

0  that  my  sorrows  had  an  end, 
That  I  might  dwell  in  thee  ! 

1  long  to  see  Jerusalem, 
The  comfort  of  us  all ; 

For  thou  art  fair  and  beautiful — 
None  ill  can  thee  befall. 

No  candle  needs,  no  moon  to  shine, 

No  glittering  star  to  light ; 
For  Christ  the  King  of  Righteousness 

Forever  shineth  bright. 

O,  passing  happy  were  my  state, 

Might  I  be  worthy  found 
To  wait  upon  my  God  and  King, 

His  praises  there  to  sound  1 

Jerusalem !  Jerusalem ! 

Thy  joys  fain  would  I  see  ; 
Come  quickly,  Lord,  and  end  my  grief, 

And  take  me  home  to  thee  ! 

David  Dickson. 


REST. 


ARTH  is  the  spirit's  rayless  cell ; 
But  then,  as  a  bird  soars  home  to  the  shade 
Of  the  beautiful  wood,  where  its  nest  was  made, 
In  bonds  no  more  to  dwell ; — 

So  will  its  weary  wing 
Be  spread  for  the  skies,  when  its  toil  is  done, 
And  its  breath  blow  free,  as  a  bird's  in  the  sun 

And  the  soft,  fresh  gales  of  spring. 

O,  not  more  sweet  the  tears 
Of  the  dewy  eve  on  the  violet  shed. 
Than  the  dews  of  age  on  the  "hoary  head,*' 

When  it  enters  the  eve  of  years. 

Nor  dearer,  mid  the  foam 
Of  the  far-off" sea,  and  its  stormy  roar, 
Is  a  breath  of  balm  from  the  unseen  shore. 

To  him  that  weeps  for  home. 

Wings,  like  a  dove,  to  fly ! — 
The  spirit  is  faint  with  its  feverish  strife  ; — 
O,  for  its  home  in  the  upper  life! 

When,  when  will  death  draw  nigh  ! 

B.  B.  Thatcher. 


CHILDHOOD  ilND  YOUTH. 


MANY.  MANY  YEARS  AGO. 

H,  my  golden  days  o( 
childhood, 
Many,  many  year  ago! 
Ah  !  how  well  do  I  remember 

What  a  pride  it  was  to  know. 
When  my  little  playmates  mus. 
tered 
On  this  old  familiar  spot, 
To  select  their  infant  pastimes, 
That  my  name  was  ne'er  for- 
got; 
When,  with  merry,  rosy  faces, 
They  so  eagerly  would  come, 
Boasting  of  the    longest    top- 
string, 
Or  a  top  of  loudest  hum; 
Or,  as  proud  as  prancing  horses. 

Chase  each  other  to  and  fro. 
In  my  golden  days  of  childhood. 
Many,  nxany  years  ago ! 

Oh,  my  balmy  days  of  boyhood, 

Many,  many  years  ago  ! 
When  I  ranged  at  will  the  wild  woods, 

For  the  berry  or  the  sloe  ; 
Or  the  gentle  blue-eyed  violet. 

Traced  by  its  own  perfume  sweet ; 
Or  with  light  and  cautious  footstep 

Sought  the  linnet's  snug  retreat ; 
Or  with  little  blooming  maidens 

To  the  nutting  groves  repaired. 
And  in  warmth  of  purest  boy-love. 

The  rich  clusters  with  them  shared  ; 
Or  when  hoary-headed  winter 

Brought  liis  welcome  frost  and  snow. 
How  we  thronged  the  frozen  streamlets, 

Many,  many  years  ago  ! 

Then  my  days  of  dawning  manhood, 

Many,  many  years  ago  ! 
When  the  future  seemed  all  brightness 

Lit  with  love's  enchanting  glow  ; 
When  what  hopes  and  blissful  day-dreams 

Would  my  buoyant  bosom  crowd. 
As  I  forth  led  my  loved  one. 

She  as  fair  as  I  was  proud  ; 
Led  her  forth  with  liglUsome  footstep, 

Where  some  happy  rustic  throng 
To  old  Robin's  merry  music 

Would  so  gaily  dance  along. 


Or  when  round  came  joyous  Christmas 

Oft  beneath  the  mistletoe, 
Have  I  toyed  with  blushing  maidens, 

Many,  many  years  ago  ! 
Ah,  ye  golden  days  !  departed, 

Yet  full  oft  on  memory's  wing 
Ye  return  like  some  bright  vision, 

And  both  joy  and  sorrow  bring. 
Where  are  now  my  boy  companions. 

Those  dear  friends  of  love  and  truth  ? 
Death  has  sealed  the  lips  of  many. 

Fair  and  beautiful  in  youth. 
Robin's  lute  has  long  been  silent. 

And  the  trees  are  old  and  bare  ; 

Silent  too  the  rippling  brooklets, 
The  old  play  ground  is  not  there  ; 
Time  hath  stolen  my  fair  one's  beauty. 

And  he  soon  will  strike  the  blow, 
That  will  break  those  ties  that  bound  us 

Many,  many  years  ago  ! 

T.  LOKEK. 


A  VISIT  FROM  ST.  NICHOLAS. 

'WAS  the  night  before   Christmas,  when  all 
through  the  house 
Not  a  creature  was  stirring,   not   even  a 
'f  mouse ; 

The  stockings  were  hung  by  the  chimney  with  care, 
In  hopes  that  St.  Nicholas  soon  would  be  there. 
The  children  were  nestled  all  snug  in  their  beds, 
While  visions  of  sugar  plums  danced  through  their 

heads ; 
And  mamma  in  her  kerchief,  and  I  in  my  cap. 
Had  settled  our  brains  for  a  long  winter's  nap. 
When  out  on  the  lawn  there  arose  such  a  clatter, 
I  sprang  from  the  bed  to  see  what  was  the  matter. 

Away  to  the  window  I  flew  )ike  a  flash. 
Tore  open  the  shutters  and  threw  up  the  sash. 
The  moon  on  the  breast  of  the  new  fallen  snow 
Gave  the  lustre  of  mid-day  to  objects  below  ; 
When,  what  to  my  wondering  eyes  should  appear. 
But  a  miniature  sleigh,  and  eight  tiny  reindeer. 
With  a  little  old  driver,  so  lively  and  quick, 
I  knew  in  a  moment  it  must  be  St.  Nick. 
More  rapid  than  eagles  his  coursers  they  came. 
And  he  whistled,  and  shouted,  and  called  them  by 

name : 
"Now,    Dasher !   now.    Dancer !    now,    Prancer !  and 

Vixen  ! 
On,  Comet !  on,  Cupid  !  on,  Donder  and  Blitzen  ! 
To  the  top  of  the  porch  !  to  the  top  of  the  wall ! 
Now  dash  away  !  dash  away  !  dash  away  all ! " 
(396) 


CHILDHOOD   AND   YOUTH. 


397 


As  dry  leaves  that  before  the  wild  hurricane  fly, 
When  they  meet  with  an  obstacle,  mount  to  the  sky, 
So  up  to  the  house-top  the  coursers  they  flew, 
With  a  sleigh  full  of  toys,  and  St.  Nicholas  too. 
And  then,  in  a  twinkling,  I  heard  on  the  roof 
The  prancing  and  pawing  of  each  little  hoof 

As  I  drew  in  my  head,  and  was  turning  around, 
Down  the  chimney  St.  Nicholas  came  with  a  bound. 
He  was  dressed  all  in  fur,  from  his  head  to  his  foot. 
And  his  clothes  were  all  tarnished  with  ashes  and  soot ; 
A  bundle  of  toys  he  had  flung  on  his  back. 
And  he  looked  like  a  peddler  just  opening  his  pack. 
His  eyes,  how  they  twinkled !  his  dimples,  how  merry  ! 
His  cheeks  were  like  roses,  his  nose  like  a  cherry  1 
His  droll  little  mouth  was  drawn  up  like  a  bow, 
And  the  beard  of  his  chin  was  as  white  as  the  snow  ; 
The  stump  of  a  pipe  he  held  tight  in  his  teeth. 
And  the  smoke  it  encircled  his  head  like  a  wreath. 
He  had  a  broad  face,  and  a  little  round  belly 
That  shook,  when  he  laughed,  like  a  bowlful  of  jelly. 
He  was  chubby  and  plump — a  right  jolly  old  elf — 
And  I  laughed,  when  I  saw  him,  in  spite  of  myself; 
A  wink  of  his  eye,  and  a  twist  of  his  head, 
Soon  gave  me  to  know  I  had  nothing  to  dread  ; 
He  spoke  not  a  word,  but  went  straight  to  his  work, 
And  filled  all  the  stockings  ;  then  turned  with  a  Jerk, 
And  laying  his  finger  aside  of  his  nose. 
And  giving  a  nod,  up  the  chimney  he  rose. 
He  sprang  to  the  sleigh,  to  the  team  gave  a  whistle, 
And  away  they  all  flew,  like  the  down  of  a  thistle, 
But  I  heard  him  exclaim,  ere  he  drove  out  of  sight, 
"  Happy  Christmas  to  all,  and  to  all  a  good-night !  " 

Clement  C.  Moore. 


llJ 


THE  CHILDREN. 

HEN  the  lessons  and  tasks  are  all  ended. 
And  the  school  for  the  day  is  dismissed, 
And  the  little  ones  gather  around  me, 
To  bid  me  good-night  and  be  kissed  ; 
Oh,  the  little  white  arms  that  encircle 

My  neck  in  a  tender  embrace  ; 
Oh,  the  smiles  that  are  halos  of  heaven. 
Shedding  sunshine  of  love  on  my  face ! 

And  when  they  are  gone  I  sit  dreaming 

Of  my  childhood,  too  lovely  to  last ; 
Of  love  that  my  heart  will  remember. 

When  it  wakes  to  the  pulse  of  the  past— 
Ere  the  world  and  its  wickedness  made  me 

A  partner  of  sorrow  and  sin  ; 
When  the  glory  of  God  was  about  me, 

And  the  glory  of  gladness  within. 

Oh,  my  heart  grows  weak  as  a  woman's, 
And  the  fountains  of  feeling  will  flow. 

When  I  think  of  the  paths  steep  and  stony 
Where  the  feet  of  the  dear  ones  must  go — 

Of  the  mountains  of  sin  hanging  o'er  them, 
Of  the  tempest  of  fate  blowing  wild  : 


Oh,  there's  nothing  on  earth  half  so  holy 
As  the  innocent  heart  of  a  child  ! 

They  are  idols  of  hearts  and  of  households, 

They  are  angels  of  God  in  disguise  ; 
His  sunlight  still  sleeps  in  their  tresses, 

His  glory  still  gleams  in  their  eyes  ; 
Oh,  these  truants  from  home  and  from  heaven. 

They  have  made  me  more  manly  and  mild  ! 
And  I  know  now  how  Jesus  could  liken 

The  kingdom  of  God  to  a  child. 

I  ask  not  a  life  for  the  dear  ones. 

All  radiant,  as  others  have  done, 
But  that  life  may  have  just  enough  shadow, 

To  temper  the  glare  of  the  sun  ; 
I  would  pray  God  to  guard  them  from  evil. 

But  my  prayer  would  bound  back  to  myself; 
Ah  !  a  seraph  may  pray  for  a  sinner. 

But  a  sinner  must  pray  for  himself. 

The  twig  is  so  easily  bended, 

I  have  banished  the  rule  and  the  rod, 
I  have  taught  them  the  goodness  of  knowledge. 

They  have  taught  me  the  goodness  of  God  ; 
My  heart  is  a  dungeon  of  darkness. 

Where  I  shut  them  from  breaking  a  rule  : 
My  frown  is  sufficient  correction  ; 

My  love  is  the  law  of  the  school. 

I  shall  leave  the  old  house  in  the  autumn, 

To  traverse  its  threshold  no  more  ; 
Ah  !  how  I  shall  sigh  for  the  dear  ones 

That  meet  me  each  morn  at  the  door ! 
I  shall  miss  the  "  good-nights  "  and  the  kisses 

And  the  gush  of  their  innocent  glee, 
The  group  on  the  green,  and  the  flowers 

That  are  brought  every  morning  to  me. 

I  shall  miss  them  at  mom  and  at  even. 

Their  song  in  the  school  and  the  street : 
I  shall  miss  the  low  hum  of  their  voices, 

And  the  tramp  of  their  delicate  feet. 
When  the  lessons  of  life  are  all  ended. 

And  death  says,  "  The  school  is  dismissed  ! " 
May  the  little  ones  gather  around  me. 

To  bid  me  good-night  and  be  kissed. 

Charles  M.  Dickinson. 


THE  MOUNTAIN  AND  THE  SQUIRREL 


'HE  mountain  and  the  squirrel 
Had  a  quarrel, 

And  the  former  called  the  latter, 
Prig ;" 
Bun  replied — 
"  You  are  doubtless  very  big ; 
But  all  sorts  of  things  and  weather 
Must  be  taken  in  together 
To  make  up  a  year, 
And  a  sphere ; 


Little 


398 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


And  I  think  it  no  disgrace 

To  occupy  my  place. 

If  I'm  not  so  large  as  you, 

You  are  not  so  small  as  I, 

And  not  half  so  spry  : 

I'll  not  deny  you  make 

A  very  pretty  squirrel  track. 

Talents  differ ;  all  is  well  and  wisely  put ; 

If  I  cannot  carry  forests  on  my  back, 

Neither  can  you  crack  a  nut." 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson. 


NO  BABY  IN  THE  HOUSE. 

O  baby  in  the  house,  I  know, 
'Tis  far  too  nice  and  clean. 
No  toys,  by  careless  fingers  strewn, 
Upon  the  floors  are  seen. 
No  finger-marks  are  on  the  panes, 

No  scratches  on  the  chairs  ; 
No  wooden  men  set  up  in  rows, 

Or  marshalled  off  in  pairs  ; 
No  little  stockings  to  be  darned, 

All  ragged  at  the  toes  ; 
No  pile  of  mending  to  be  done. 

Made  up  of  baby  clothes  ; 
No  little  troubles  to  be  soothed  ; 

No  little  hands  to  fold  ; 
No  grimy  fingers  to  be  washed  ; 

No  stories  to  be  told  ; 
No  tender  kisses  to  be  given  ; 

No  nicknames,  "  Dove"  and  "  Mouse  ;" 
No  merry  frolics  after  tea — 

No  baby  in  the  house  1 

CLA.RA  G.  DOLLIVER. 


w 


THE  BABY. 

HERE  did  you  come  from,  baby  dear? 
Oui  of  the  everywhere  into  the  here. 

Where  did  you  get  your  eyes  so  blue  ? 
Out  of  the  sky  as  I  came  through. 


What  makes  the  light  in  them  sparkle  and  spin  ? 
Some  of  the  starry  spikes  left  in. 

Where  did  you  get  that  little  tear? 
/  found  it  waiting  when  I  got  here. 

What  makes  your  forehead  so  smooth  and  high? 
A  soft  hand  stroked  it  as  I  went  by. 

What  makes  your  cheek  like  a  warm  white  rose? 
Something  better  than  any  one  knows. 

Whence  that  three-cornered  smile  of  bliss? 
Three  angels  gave  me  at  once  a  kiss.  ' 

Where  did  you  get  that  pearly  ear? 
God  spoke f  and  it  came  out  to  hear. 


Where  did  you  get  those  arms  and  hands  ? 
Love  made  itself  into  hooks  and  bands. 

Feet,  whence  did  you  come,  you  darling  things  ? 
From  the  same  box  as  the  cherub's  wings. 

How  did  they  all  just  come  to  be  you  ? 
God  thought  about  me,  and  so  I  grew. 

But  how  did  you  come  to  us,  you  dear? 
God  thought  of  you,  and  so  I  am.  here. 

George  Macdonald. 


SATURDAY  AFTERNOON. 

LOVE  to  look  on  a  scene  like  this, 

Of  wild  and  careless  play, 
And  persuade  myself  that  I  am  not  old 
And  my  locks  are  not  yet  gray  ; 
For  it  stirs  the  blood  in  an  old  man's  heart, 

And  makes  his  pulses  fly, 
To  catch  the  thrill  of  a  happy  voice. 
And  the  light  of  a  pleasant  eye. 

I  have  walked  the  world  for  fourscore  years  ; 

And  they  say  that  I  am  old, 
That  my  heart  is  ripe  for  the  reaper,  Death, 

And  my  years  are  well  nigh  told. 
It  is  very  true  ;  it  is  very  true  ; 

I'm  old,  and  "  I  'bide  my  time  :" 
But  my  heart  will  leap  at  a  scene  like  this, 

And  I  half  renew  my  prime. 

Play  on,  play  on  ;  I  am  with  you  there, 

In  the  midst  of  your  merry  ring  ; 
I  can  feel  thethrill  of  the  daring  jump. 

And  the  rush  of  the  breathless  swing. 
I  hide  with  you  in  the  fragrant  haj', 

And  I  whoop  the  smothered  call, 
And  my  feet  slip  up  on  the  seedy  floor, 

And  I  care  not  for  the  fall. 

I  am  willing  to  die  when  my  time  shall  come. 

And  I  shall  be  glad  to  go  ; 
For  the  world  at  best  is  a  weary  place, 

And  my  pulse  is  getting  low; 
But  the  grave  is  dark,  and  the  heart  will  fail 

In  treading  its  gloomy  way  ; 
And  it  wiles  my  heart  from  its  dreariness 

To  see  the  young  so  gay. 

Nathaniel  Parker  Willis. 


HAPPY  DAYS  OF  CHILDHOOD. 

HILD  of  the  country !  free  as  air 
Art  thou,  and  as  the  sunshine  fair ; 
Born  like  the  lily,  where  the  dew 
Lies  odorous  when  the  day  is  new; 
Fed  'mid  the  May-flowers  like  the  bee, 
Nursed  to  sweet  music  on  the  knee. 
Lulled  in  the  breast  to  that  sweet  tune 
Which  winds  make  'mong  the  woods  of  June  : 


CHILDHOOD   AND   YOUTH. 


399 


I  sing  of  thee : — 'tis  sweet  to  sing 
Of  such  a  fair  and  gladsome  thing. 

Child  of  the  country !  thy  small  feet 
Tread  on  strawberries  red  and  sweet : 
With  thee  I  wander  forth  to  see 
The  flowers  which  most  delight  the  bee  ; 
The  bush  o'er  which  the  throstle  sung 
In  April  while  she  nursed  her  young  ; 
The  dew  beneath  the  sloe-thorn,  where 
She  bred  her  twins  the  timorous  hare  ; 
The  knoll,  wrought  o'er  with  wild  blue-bells, 
Where  brown  bees  build  their  balmy  cells, 
The  greenwood  stream,  the  shady  pool, 
Where  trouts  leap  when  the  day  is  cool ; 
The  shilfa's  nest  that  seems  to  be 
A  portion  of  the  sheltering  tree. 
And  other  marvels  which  my  verse 
Can  find  no  language  to  rehearse. 

Child  of  the  country  !  on  the  lawn 
I  see  thee  like  the  bounding  fawn, 
Blithe  as  the  bird  which  tries  its  wing 
The  first  time  on  the  winds  of  spring  ; 
Bright  as  the  sun  when  from  the  cloud 
He  comes  as  cocks  are  crowing  loud  ; 
Now  running,  shouting,  'mid  sunbeams, 
Now  groping  trouts  in  lucid  streams, 
Now  spinning  like  a  mill-wheel  round, 
Now  hunting  echo's  empty  sound, 
Now  climbing  up  some  old  tall  tree — 
For  climbing's  sake — 'Tis  sweet  to  thee 
To  sit  where  birds  can  sit  alone, 
Or  share  with  thee  thy  venturous  throne. 

Allan  Cunningham. 


(3 


WE  ARE  SEVEN. 

SIMPLE  child, 

That  lightly  draws  its  breath. 
And  feels  its  life  in  every  limb. 
What  should  it  know  of  death  ? 


I  met  a  little  cottage  g^rl : 

She  was  eight  years  old,  she  said  ; 
Her  hair  was  thick  with  many  a  curl 

That  clustered  round  her  head. 

She  had  a  rustic,  woodland  air, 

And  she  was  wildly  clad  ; 
Her  eyes  were  fair,  and  very  fair ; — 

Her  beauty  made  me  glad. 

"  Sisters  and  brothers,  little  maid, 
How  many  may  you  be  ?  " 

"  How  many  ?    Seven  in  all,"  she  said. 
And  wondering  looked  at  me. 

"And  where  are  they  !  I  pray  you  tell." 
She  answered,  "  Seven  are  we  ; 


And  two  of  us  at  Conway  dwell. 
And  two  are  gone  to  sea  ; 

"  Two  of  us  in  the  churchyard  lie, 
My  sister  and  my  brother  ; 
And,  in  the  churchyard  cottage,  I 
Dwell  near  them  with  my  mother." 

"  You  say  that  two  at  Conway  dwell, 
And  two  are  gone  to  sea, 
Yet  ye  are  seven  !     I  pray  you  tell. 
Sweet  maid,  how  this  may  be." 

Then  did  the  little  maid  reply, 
"  Seven  boys  and  girls  are  we  ; 
Two  of  us  in  the  churchyard  lie 
Beneath  the  churchyard  tree." 

"You  run  about,  my  little  maid, 
Your  limbs  they  are  alive  ; 
If  two  are  in  the  churchyard  laid, 
Then  ye  are  only  five." 

"  Their  graves  are  green,  they  may  be  seen." 

The  little  maid  replied  : 
"  Twelve  steps  or  more  from  my  mother's  door, 

And  they  are  side  by  side. 

"My  stockings  there  I  often  knit. 
My  kerchief  there  I  hem  ; 
And  there  upon  the  ground  I  sit. 
And  sing  a  song  to  them. 

•'And  often  after  sunset,  sir, 
When  it  is  light  and  fair, 
I  take  my  little  porringer,  * 

And  eat  my  supper  there. 

"  The  first  that  died  was  Sister  Jane  ;  " 

In  bed  she  moaning  lay. 
Till  God  released  her  of  her  pain  ; 
And  then  she  went  away. 

"  So  in  the  churchj'ard  she  was  laid  ; 
And,  when  the  grass  was  dry, 
Together  round  her  grave  we  played. 
My  brother  John  and  I. 

"  And  when  the  ground  was  white  with  snow, 
And  I  could  run  and  slide, 
My  brother  John  was  forced  to  go, 
And  he  lies  by  her  side." 

"  How  many  are  you,  then,"  said  I, 
"  If  they  two  are  in  heaven  ? " 
Quick  was  the  little  maid's  reply  ! 
"  O  master  1  we  are  seven." 

"  But  they  are  dead  ;  those  two  are  dead ! 
Their  spirits  are  in  heaven  ! " 
'Twas  throwing  words  away  ;  for  still 
The  little  maid  would  have  her  will. 
And  said,  "  Nay,  we  are  seven." 

WiLLiAii  Wordsworth. 


..^M^ 


400 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


WHAT  DOES  LITTLE  BIRDIE  SAY? 


llJ 


HAT  does  little  birdie  say 
In  her  nest  at  peep  of  day  ? 
Let  me  fly,  says  little  birdie, 
Mother,  let  me  fly  away. 
Birdie,  rest  a  little  longer, 
Till  the  little  wings  are  stronger. 
So  she  rests  a  little  longer, 
Then  she  flies  away. 

What  does  little  baby  say, 
In  her  bed  at  peep  of  day  ? 
Baby  says,  like  little  birdie. 
Let  me  rise  and  fly  away. 
Baby,  sleep  a  little  longer, 
Till  the  little  limbs  are  stronger. 
If  she  sleeps  a  little  longer, 
Baby  too  shall  fly  away. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


ii 


HELP  ONE  ANOTHER. 

ELP  one  another,"  the  snow-flakes  said, 
As  they  cuddled  down  in  their  fleecy  bed  ; 
"  One  of  us  here  would  not  be  felt, 
One  of  us  here  would  quickly  melt, 
But  I'll  help  you,  and  you  help  me, 
And  then  what  a  big  white  drift  we'll  see." 

"  Help  one  another,"  the  maple  spray 

Said  to  its  fellow  leaves  one  day  ; 
"  The  sun  would  wither  me  here  alone, 

Long  enough  ere  the  day  is  gone. 

But  I'll  help  you,  and  you  help  me. 

And  then  what  a  splendid  shade  there'll  be." 

"  Help  one  another,"  the  dew-drop  cried, 
Seeing  another  drop  close  to  its  side  ; 

"  This  warm  south  breeze  would  dry  me  away, 
And  I  should  be  gone  ere  noon  to-day, 
But  I'll  help  you,  and  you  help  me. 
And  we'll  make  a  brook  and  run  to  the  sea." 

"  Help  one  another,"  a  grain  of  sand 

Said  to  another  grain  just  at  hand  ; 
"  The  wind  may  carry  me  over  the  sea, 

And  then,  oh,  what  will  become  of  me? 

But  come,  my  brother,  give  me  your  hand 

We'll  build  a  mountain  and  there  we'll  stand." 

"  Help  one  another,"  a  penny  said 

To  a  fellow  penny,  round  and  red  ; 
"  Nobody  cares  for  me  alone, 

Nobody'll  care  when  I  am  gone. 

But  we'll  stick  together,  and  grow  in  time 

To  a  nickel,  or  even  a  silver  dime." 

*•  Help  one  another,"  I  hear  the  dimes 
Whisper  beneath  the  Christmas  chimes ; 


"  We're  only  little  folks,  but  you  know 
Little/olks  sometimes  make  a  show. 
Ten  of  us,  if  we're  good  and  pure. 
Equal  a  big  round  dollar,  sure." 

And  so  the  snowflakes  grew  to  drifts, 

The  grains  of  sand  to  mountains, 
The  leaves  became  a  pleasant  shade, 

And  dew-drops  fed  the  fountains  ; 
The  pennies  grew  to  silver  dimes, 

The  dimes  to  dollars,  brother  ! 
And  children  bring  this  Christmas  gift 

By  helping  one  another. 

George  E.  Hunting. 


TEACHING  PUBLIC  SCHOOL 

(^^  ORTY  little  urchins, 

Coming  through  the  door, 
Pushing,  crowding,  making 
A  tremendous  roar. 
Why  don't  you  keep  quiet  ? 

Can't  you  keep  the  rule  ? — 
Bless  me,  this  is  pleasant, 
Teaching  public  school  I 

Forty  little  pilgrims 

On  the  road  to  fame  ; 
If  they  fail  to  reach  it, 

Who  will  be  to  blame  ? 
High  and  lowly  stations — 

Birds  of  every  feather — 
On  a  common  level 

Here  are  brought  together. 

Dirty  little  faces. 

Loving  little  hearts. 
Eyes  brimful  of  mischief, 

Skilled  in  all  its  arts. 
That's  a  precious  darling! 

What  are  you  about  ? 
"  May  I  pass  the  water  ?" 

"  Please,  may  I  go  out  ?" 

Boots  and  shoes  are  shuffling, 

Slates  and  books  are  rattling, 
And  in  a  corner  yonder 

Two  pugilists  are  battling  : 
Others  cutting  didos — 

What  a  botheration ! 
No  wonder  we  grow  crusty 

From  such  association  ! 

Anxious  parent  drops  in, 

Merely  to  inquire 
Why  his  olive  branches 

Do  not  shoot  up  higher ; 
Says  he  wants  his  children 

To  mind  their  p's  and  q's. 
And  hopes  their  brilliant  talents 

Will  not  be  abused. 


11/ 


TEACH ^ 


^ihe  rule  r — 


ia^r«T»d  i.  ?r:r--»d  Vjr  "^'T^-t    3rotl^*r«. 


APIPY     ©AYS     OF     (SIHlflLI)IH10''n)(D 


CHILDHOOD   AND   YOUTH. 


4o:: 


Lower  and  lower  the  little  head  pressed, 
Until  It  drooped  upon  grandpapa's  breast ; 
Dear  little  Goldenhair !  sweet  be  thy  rest ! 

We  are  but  children  ;  the  things  that  we  do 
Are  as  sports  of  a  babe  to  the  Infinite  view 
That  sees  all  our  weakness,  and  pities  it  too. 

God  grant  that  when  night  overshadows  our  way, 
And  we  shall  be  called  to  account  for  our  day, 
He  shall  find  us  as  guileless  as  Goldenhair's  play ! 

And  O,  when  aweary,  may  we  be  so  blest 
As  to  sink  like  the  innocent  child  to  our  rest, 
And  teel  ourselves  clasped  to  the  Infinite  breast ! 
F,  BuRGE  Smith. 

BOYHOOD. 

H,  then  how  sweetly  closed  those    crowded 
days ! 
The  minutes  parting  one  by  one,  like  rays 
That  fade  upon  a  summer's  eve. 
But  O,  what  charm  or  magic  numbers 
Can  give  me  back  the  gentle  slumbers 
Those  weary,  happy  days  did  leave  ? 
When  by  my  bed  I  saw  my  mother  kneel, 

And  with  her  blessing  took  her  nightly  kiss  ;  » 
Whatever  time  destroys,  he  cannot  this  ; — 
E'en  now  that  nameless  kiss  I  feel. 

Washington  Allston. 


a 


SEVEN  TIMES  ONE. 

'HERE 'S  no  dew  left  on  the  daisies  aitd  clover. 
There's  no  rain  left  in  heaven. 
I've  said  my  "  seven  times"  over  and  over — 
'^  Seven  limes  one  are  seven. 

I  am  old — so  old  I  can  write  a  letter  ; 

My  birthday  lessons  are  done. 
The  lambs  play  always — they  know  no  better  ; 

They  are  only  one  times  one. 

0  moon  !  in  the  niglit  I  have  seen  you  sailing 

And  shining  so  round  and  low. 
You  were  bright — ah,  bright — but  your  light  is  fail- 
ing ; 
You  are  nothing  now  but  a  bow. 

You  moon !  have  you    done    something    wrong  in 
heaven, 
That  God  has  hidden  your  face  ? 

1  hope,  if  you  have,  you  will  soon  be  forgiven, 

And  shifie  again  in  your  place. 

O  velvet  bee  !  you're  a  dusty  fellow — 

You've  powdered  your  legs  with  gold. 

O  brave  marsh  Mary-buds,  rich  and  yellow, 
Give  me  your  money  to  hold  ! 

O  columbine  !  open  your  folded  wrapper. 
Where  two  twin  turtle  doves  dwell ! 


0  cuckoo-pint !  toll  me  the  purple  clapper 

That  hangs  in  your  clear  green  bell ! 

And  show  me  your  rest,  with  the  young  ones  in  it- 
I  will  not  steal  them  away  ; 

1  am  old  !  you  may  trust  me,  linnet,  linnet ! 

I  am  seven  times  one  to-day. 

Jean  Ingelow. 


P 


THE  PIPER. 

IPING  down  the  valleys  wild, 
Piping  songs  of  pleasant  glee, 
On  a  cloud  I  saw  a  child, 
And  he  laughing  said  to  me : — 

"  Pipe  a  song  about  a  lamb :  " 
So  I  piped  with  merry  cheer. 

**  Piper,  pipe  that  song  again  : " 
So  I  piped  ;  he  wept  to  hear. 

*'  Drop  thy  pipe,  thy  happy  pipe. 
Sing  thy  songs  of  happy  cheer :  " 
So  I  sung  the  same  again, 
\Vliile  he  wept  with  joy  to  hear. 

"  Piper,  sit  thee  down  and  write 
In  a  book  that  all  may  read — " 
So  he  vanished  from  my  sight ; 
And  I  plucked  a  hollow  reed. 

And  I  made  a  rural  pen, 
And  I  stained  the  water  clear, 
And  I  wrote  my  happy  songs 
Every  child  may  joy  to  hear. 

William  Blak' 


BABY'S   SHOES. 

THOSE  little,  those  little  blue  shoes! 
Those  shoes  tliat  no  little  feet  use. 
^  O  the  price  were  high 

That  those  shoes  would  buy, 
Those  little  blue  unused  shoes  ! 

For  they  hold  the  small  shape  of  feet 
That  no  more  their  mother's  eyes  meet. 

That,  by  God's  good  will, 

Years  since,  grew  still 
And  ceased  from  their  totter  so  sweet. 

And  O,  since  that  baby  slept. 
So  hushed,  how  the  mother  has  kept, 
With  a  tearful  pleasure, 
^     That  little  dear  treasure. 
And  o'er  them  thought  and  wept ! 

For  they  mind  her  forevermore 
Of  a  patter  along  the  floor ; 

And  blue  eyes  she  sees 

Look  up  from  her  knees 
With  the  look  that  in  life  they  wore. 


404 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


As  they  lie  before  her  there, 
Their  babbles  from  chair  to  chair 

A  little  sweet  face 

That's  a  gleam  in  the  place, 
With  its  little  gold  curls  of  hair. 

Then  O  wonder  not  that  her  heart 
From  all  else  would  rather  part 

Than  those  tiny  blue  shoes 

That  no  little  feet  use, 
And  whose  sight  makes  such  fond  tears  start ! 
William  Cox  Bennett. 


THE  ENCHANTRESS— A  SPRING-TIME  LYRIC 
FOR  MABEL. 

'  T  is  only  in  legend  and  fable 

The  fairies  are  with  us,  you  know  •, 
For  the  fairi.es  are  fled,  little  Mabel, 
Ay,  ages  and  ages  ago. 

And  yet  I  have  met  with  a  fairy — ■ 
You  needn't  go  shaking  your  curls — 

A  genuine  spirit  and  airy, 

Like  her  who  talked  nothing  but  pearls  ! 

You  may  laugh  if  you  like,  little  Mabel ; 

I  know  you're  exceedingly  wise  ; 
But  I  have  seen  her  as  plain  as  I'm  able 

To  see  unbelief  in  your  eyes. 

A  marvelous  creature  !  I  really 
Can't  say  she  is  gifted  with  wings, 

Or  resides  in  a  tulip  ;  but,  clearly, 
She's  queen  of  all  beautiful  things. 

Whenever  she  comes  from  her  castle, 
The  snow  fades  away  like  a  dream. 

And  the  pine-cone's  icicle  tassel 
Melts,  and  drops  into  the  stream  ! 

The  dingy  gray  moss  on  the  bowlder 
Takes  color  like  burnished  steel ; 

The  brook  puts  its  silvery  shoulder 
Again  to  the  old  mill -wheel  I 

The  robin  and  wren  fly  to  meet  her  ; 

The  honey-bee  hums  with  delight ; 
The  morning  breaks  brighter  and  sweeter : 

More  tenderly  falls  the  night ! 

By  roadsides,  in  pastures  and  meadows, 

The  buttercups  growing  bold. 
For  her  sake  light  up  the  shadows 

With  disks  of  tremulous  gold. 

Even  the  withered  bough  blossoms 

Grateful  for  sunlight  and  rain — 
Even  the  hearts  in  our  bosoms 

Are  leaping  to  greet  her  again  I 

What  fairy  in  all  your  romances 

Is  such  an  enchantress  as  she, 
Who  blushes  in  roses  and  pansies. 

And  sings  in  the  birds  on  the  tree  ? 

Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich. 


THE  BAREFOOT  BOY. 

,LESSINGS  on  thee,  little  man. 
Barefoot  boy,  with  cheek  of  tan  ! 
With  thy  turned-up  pantaloons, 
And  thy  merry  whistled  tunes  ; 
With  thy  red  lip,  redder  still 
Kissed  by  strawberries  on  the  hill ; 
With  the  sunshine  on  thy  face. 
Through  thy  torn  brim's  jaunty  grace ; 
From  my  heart  I  give  thee  joy — 
I  was  once  a  barefoot  boy  ! 
Prince  thou  art — the  grown-up  man 
Only  is  republican. 
Let  the  million-dollared  ride  ! 
Barefoot,  trudging  at  his  side. 
Thou  hast  more  than  he  can  buy 
In  the  reach  of  ear  and  eye — 
Outward  sunshine,  inward  joy : 
Blessings  on  thee,  barefoot  boy  ! 

O  for  boyhood's  painless  play, 
Sleep  that  wakes  in  laughing  day. 
Health  that  mocks  the  doctor's  rules. 
Knowledge  never  learned  of  schools, 
Of  the  wild  bee's  morning  chase 
Of  the  wild-flower's  time  and  place. 
Flight  of  fowl  and  habitude 
Of  the  tenants  of  the  wood  ; 
How  the  tortoise  bears  his  shell. 
How  the  woodchuck  digs  his  cell. 
And  the  ground-mole  sinks  his  well ; 
How  the  robin  feeds  her  young. 
How  the  oriole's  nest  is  hung  ; 
Where  the  whitest  lilies  blow, 
Where  the  freshest  berries  grow. 
Where  the  ground-nut  trails  its  vine. 
Where  the  wood-grape's  clusters  shine  ; 
Of  the  black  wasp's  cunning  way. 
Mason  of  his  walls  of  clay. 
And  the  architectural  plans 
Of  gray  hornet  artisans ! — 
For,  eschewing  books  and  tasks. 
Nature  answers  all  he  asks  ; 
Hand  in  hand  with  her  he  walks. 
Face  to  face  with  her  he  talks. 
Part  and  parcel  of  her  joy — 
Blessings  on  the  barefoot  boy  ! 

O  for  boyhood's  time  of  June, 
Crowding  years  in  one  brief  moon, 
When  all  things  I  heard  or  saw, 
Me,  their  master,  waited  for. 
I  was  rich  in  flowers  and  trees. 
Humming-birds  and  honey-bees  ; 
For  my  sport  the  squirrel  played. 
Plied  the  snouted  mole  his  spade  / 
For  my  taste  the  blackberry  cone 
Purpled  over  hedge  and  stone ; 


CHILDHOOD  AND   YOUTH. 


405 


a 


Laughed  the  brook  for  my  delight 
Through  the  day  and  through  the  night, 
Whispering  at  the  garden  wall, 
Talked  with  me  from  fall  to  fall ; 
Mine  the  sand-rimmed  pickerel  pond, 
Mine  the  walnut  slopes  beyond. 
Mine,  on  bending  orchard  trees, 
Apples  of  Hesperides ! 
Still  as  my  horizon  grew, 
Larger  grew  my  riches  too ; 
All  the  world  I  saw  or  knew 
Seemed  a  complex  Chinese  toy, 
Fashioned  for  a  barefoot  boy ! 

O  for  festal  dainties  spread. 
Like  my  bowl  of  milk  and  bread — 
Pewter  spoon  and  bowl  of  wood, 
On  the  door-stone,  gray  and  rude  ! 
O'er  me,  like  a  regal  tent, 
Cloudy-ribbed,  the  sunset  bent. 
Purple-curtained,  fringed  with  gold. 
Looped  in  many  a  wind-swung  fold  ; 
While  for  music  came  the  play 
Of  the  pied  frogs'  orchestra  ; 
And,  to  light  the  noisy  choir, 
Lit  the  fly  his  lamp  of  fire. 
I  was  monarch  :  pomp  and  joy  ■ 
Waited  on  the  barefoot  boy  ! 

Cheerly,  then,  my  little  man, 
Live  and  laugh,  as  boyhood  can  ! 
Though  the  flinty  slopes  be  hard. 
Stubble-speared  the  new  mown  sward. 
Every  morn  shall  lead  thee  through 
Fresh  baptisms  of  the  dew ; 
Every  evening  from  thy  feet 
Shall  the  cool  wind  kiss  the  heat ; 
All  too  soon  these  feet  must  hide 
In  the  prison  cells  of  pride. 
Lose  the  freedom  of  the  sod, 
Like  a  colt's  for  work  be  shod. 
Made  to  tread  the  mills  of  toil, 
Up  and  down  in  ceaseless  moil : 
Happy  if  their  track  be  found 
Never  on  forbidden  ground  ; 
Happy  if  they  sink  not  in 
Quick  and  treacherous  sands  of  sin. 
Ah  !  that  thou  couldst  know  thy  joy. 
Ere  it  passes,  barefoot  boy  ! 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 

THE  GOAT  AND  THE  SWING. 

VICIOUS  goat,  one  day,  had  found 
His  way  into  forbidden  ground, 
When,  coming  to  the  garden  swing. 
He  spied  a  most  prodigious  thing — 
A  ram,  a  monster  to  his  mind. 
With  head  before  and  head  behind  ! 


Its  shape  was  odd,  no  noois  were  seen. 
But  without  legs  it  stood  between 
Two  upright,  lofty  posts  of  oak. 
With  forehead  ready  for  a  stroke. 

Though  but  a  harmless  ornament 
Carved  on  the  seat,  it  seemed  intent 
On  barring  the  intruder's  way  ; 
While  he,  advancing,  seemed  to  say, 
"Who  is  this  surly  fellow  here ? 
Two  heads,  no  tail — it's  mighty  queer  1 
A  most  insulting  countenance  1 " 
With  stamp  of  foot  and  angry  glance 
He  curbed  his  threatening  neck,  and  stood 
Before  the  passive  thing  of  wood. 

"You  winked  as  I  was  going  by! 
You  did  n't  ?    What !  tell  me  I  lie  ? 
Take  that !  "     And  at  the  swing  he  sprung  : 
A  sounding  thump !     It  backward  swung. 
And,  set  in  motion  by  the  blow. 
Swayed  menacingly  to  and  fro. 

"Ha  !  you'll  fight?    A  quarrelsome  chap 
I  knew  you  were !    You'll  get  a  rap  ! 
ril  crack  your  skull !  "     A  headlong  jump  : 
Another  and  a  louder  bump ! 

The  swing,  as  if  with  kindling  wrath. 
Came  pushing  back  along  the  path. 
The  goat,  astonished,  shook  his  head, 
Winked  hard,  turned  round,  grew  mad,  and  said, 
'  Villain !  I'll  teach  you  who  I  am !  " 
(Or  seemed  to  say,)  "you  rascal  ram, 
To  pick  a  fight  with  me,  when  I 
So  quietly  am  passing  by ! 
Your  head  or  mine  ! "     A  thundering  stroke : 
The  cracking  horns  met  crashing  oak  ! 
Then  came  a  dull  and  muffled  sound. 
And  something  rolled  along  the  ground, 
Got  up,  looked  sad,  appeared  to  say: 
"  Your  head's  too  hard  !  "  and  limped  away 
Quite  humbly,  in  a  rumpled  coat — 
A  dirtier  and  a  wiser  goat ! 

John  Townsend  Trowbridge. 


LITTLE  BROWN  HANDS. 

'HEY  drive  home  the  cows  from  the  pasture. 
Up  through  the  long,  shady  lane. 
Where  the  quail  whistles  loud  in  the  wheat- 
-f  fields 

That  are  yellow  with  ripening  grain. 
They  find,  in  the  thick,  waving  grasses. 

Where  the  scarlet-lipped  strawberry  grows  ; 
They  gather  the  earliest  snow-drops, 
And  the  first  crimson  buds  of  the  rose. 

They  toss  the  new  hay  in  the  meadow ; 

They  gather  the  elder-blooms  white ; 
They  find  where  the  dusky  grapes  purple. 

In  the  soft-tinted  October  light. 


406 


CROWN   JEWELS. 


They  know  where  the  apples  hang  ripest, 
And  are  sweeter  than  Italy's  wines  ; 

They  know  where  the  fruit  hangs  the  thickest 
On  the  long,  thorny  blackberry-vines. 

They  gather  the  delicate  sea-weeds, 

And  build  tiny  castles  of  sand  ; 
They  pick  up  the  beautiful  sea-shells — 

Fairy  barks  that  have  drifted  to  land. 
They  wave  from  the  tall,  rocking  tree-tops. 

Where  the  oriole's  hammock-nest  swings  ; 
And  at  night-time  are  folded  in  slumber 

By  a  song  that  a  fond  mother  sings. 

Those  who  toil  bravely  are  strongest ; 

The  humble  and  poor  become  great , 
And  so  from  these  brown-handed  children 

Shall  grow  mighty  rulers  of  state. 
The  pen  of  the  author  and  statesman — 

The  noble  and  wise  of  the  land — 
The  sword,  and  the  chisel,  and  palette, 

Shall  be  held  in  the  little  brown  hand. 

M.  n.  Krout. 

ROBERT  BRUCE  AND  THE  SPIDER. 

)ING  Bruce  of  Scotland  flung  himself  down. 
In  a  lonely  mood  to  think  ; 
'Tis  true  he  was  monarch,  and  wore  a  crown. 
But  his  heart  was  beginning  to  sink. 

For  he  had  been  trying  to  do  a  great  deed, 

To  make  his  people  glad  ; 
He  had  tried  and  tried,  but  could  not  succeed. 

And  so  he  became  quite  sad. 

He  flung  himself  into  a  deep  despair, 

He  was  grieved  as  man  could  be  ; 
And  after  a  while,  as  he  pondered  there, 

"I'll  give  it  up  !"  cried  he. 

Now,  just  at  that  moment,  a  spider  dropped 

With  its  silken  cobweb  clew. 
And  the  king,  in  the  midst  of  his  thinking  stopped 

To  see  what  the  spider  would  do. 

'Twas  a  long  way  up  to  the  ceiling  dome, 

And  it  hung  by  a  rope  so  fine. 
That  how  it  would  get  to  its  cobweb  home 

King  Bruce  could  not  divine. 

It  soon  began  to  cling  and  crawl 

Straight  up  with  strong  endeavor  ; 
But  down  it  came  with  a  slipping  sprawl, 

As  near  to  the  ground  as  ever. 

Up,  up  it  ran,  nor  a  second  did  stay, 

To  make  the  least  complaint. 
Till  it  fell  still  lower  ;  and  there  it  lay 

A  little  dizzy  and  faint. 
Its  head  grew  steady— again  it  went. 

And  traveled  a  half-yard  higher  ; 
'T  was  a  delicate  thread  it  had  to  tread. 

And  a  road  where  its  feet  would  tire. 


Again  it  fell,  and  swung  below ; 

But  up  it  quickly  mounted, 
Till  up  and  down,  now  fast,  now  slow. 

Nine  brave  attempts  were  counted. 

'Sure,"  said  the  king,  "that  foolish  thing- 
Will  strive  no  more  to  climb, 

When  it  toils  so  hard  to  reach  and  cling, 
And  tumbles  every  time." 

But  up  the  insect  went  once  more  ; 

Ah  me  !  't  is  an  anxious  minute  ; 
He's  only  a  foot  from  his  cobweb  <ioor — 

O,  say  !  will  he  lose  or  win  it  ? 

Steadily,  steadily,  inch  by  inch, 

Higher  and  higher  he  got. 
And  a  bold  little  run,  at  the  very  last  pinch. 

Put  him  into  the  wished-for  spot. 

'  Bravo,  bravo  !  "  the  king  cri«d  out ; 
"All  honor  to  those  who  try  ! 
The  spider  up  there  defied  despair ; 

He  conquered,  and  why  should  not  I  ?  " 

Thus  Bruce  of  Scotland  braced  his  mind  ; 

And  gossips  tell  the  tale, 
That  he  tried  once  more,  as  he  tried  before. 

And  that  time  did  not  fail. 

Pay  goodly  heed,  all  you  who  read. 

And  beware  of  saying,  "  I  can't  ;  "  "» 

'Tis  a  cowardly  word,  and  apt  to  lead 

To  idleness,  folly,  and  want. 

Eliza  Cook. 


LESSONS  FROM  BIRDS  AND  BEES. 

LOVE  to  see  the  little  goldfinch  pluck 
The  groundsel's  feathered  seed,  and  twit  and 

twit; 
And  soon  in  bower  of  apple  blossoms  perched. 
Plume  his  gay  suit,  and  pay  us  with  a  song — 
I  would  not  hold  him  prisoner  for  the  world. 

The  chimney-haunting  swallow,  too,  my  eye 
And  ear  well  pleases.     I  delight  to  see 
How  suddenly  he  skims  the  glassy  pool. 
How  quaintly  dips,  and  with  a  bullet's  speed 
Whisks  by.    I  love  to  be  awake,  and  hear 
His  morning  song  twittered  to  dawning  day. 

But  most  of  all,  it  wins  my  admiration 

To  view  the  structure  of  this  little  work — 

A  bird's  nest.     Mark  it  well,  within,  without — 

No  tool  had  he  that  wrought,  no  knife  to  cut. 

No  nail  to  fix,  no  bodkin  to  insert. 

No  glue  to  join  ;  his  little  beak  was  all — 

And  yet  how  nicely  finished  !    What  nice  hand. 

With  every  implement  and  means  of  art. 

And  twenty  years'  apprenticeship  to  boot. 

Could  make  me  such  another  ? 


CHILDHOOD   AND   YOUTH. 


407 


Mark  the  bee  ; 
*  She,  too,  an  artist  is — a  cunning  artist. 
Who  at  the  roof  begins  her  golden  work, 
And  builds  without  foundation.     How  she  toils, 
And  still  from  bed  to  bed,  from  flower  to  flower, 
Travels  the  livelong  day  !    Ye  idle  drones, 
Who  rather  pilfer  than  your  bread  obtain 
By  honest  means  like  these,  behold  and  learn 
How  grand,  how  fair,  how  honorable  it  is 
To  live  by  industry  !    The  busy  tribes 
Of  bees,  so  emulous,  are  daily  fed, 
Because  they  daily  toil.     And  bounteous  Heaven, 
Still  to  the  diligent  and  active  good, 
Their  very  labor  makes  the  cause  of  health. 


© 


DARE  AND  DO. 

ARE  to  tliink,  though  others  frown  ; 

Dare  in  words  your  thoughts  express  ; 
Dare  to  rise,  though  oft  cast  down ; 
Dare  the  wronged  and  scorned  to  bless. 

Dare  from  custom  to  depart ; 

Dare  the  priceless  pearl  possess ; 
Dare  to  wear  it  next  your  heart ; 

Dare,  when  others  curse,  to  bless. 

Dare  forsake  what  you  deem  wrong ; 

Dare  to  walk  in  wisdom's  way ; 
Dare  to  give  where  gifts  belong ; 

Dare  God's  precepts  to  obey. 

Do  what  conscience  says  is  right ; 

Do  what  reason  says  is  best ; 
Do  with  all  your  mind  and  might ; 

Do  your  duty,  and  be  blest. 


ARY  SCHEFFER. 

Ary  Scheffer  was  an  eminent  French  painter.    He  was  born  in 
1793,  and  died  in  2858. 


N  the  wall  of  brick  and  plaster. 

Running  down  the  garden  walk, 
Little  Ary  drew  a  picture 
With  a  piece  of  pointed  chalk. 

As  he  drew  it.  Cousin  Gretchen, 
With  her  doll,  was  standing  by  ; 

And  she  said,  "  You'll  be  an  artist. 
My  dear  Ary,  if  you  try." 

Truly  spoke  his  Cousin  Gretchen  ; 

For,  while  yet  a  little  boy, 
His  great  diligence  and  talent 

Filled  his  mother's  heart  with  joy. 

Much  that  mother  longed  to  see  him 
Grow  to  be  a  good,  great  man. 
"  I  have  little  money,  Ar\', 

But  I'll  spare  whate'er  I  can. 


"  I  will  pay  the  best  of  masters, 

Who  shall  teach  you  all  they  know. 

'  In  all  labor  there  is  profit,' 
Honors,  too,  from  labor  flow. 

"  Let  not  earthly  fame  or  g1or>'. 

Be  your  only  end  or  aim, 

Let  the  glory  of  your  Maker 

Have  the  first  and  highest  claim. 

"Then  I  doubt  not,  darling  Ary, 
If  God  spare  you,  you  shall  be 
First  and  foremost  of  the  painters 
Which  the  present  age  shall  see." 

Truly  spoke  his  loving  mother ; 

A  great  artist  he  became  : 
All  the  world  now  loud  in  honor 

Speak  of  Ary  Scheffer's  name. 


BY-AND-BY. 

'HERE' S  a  little  mischief-maker 

That  is  stealing  half  our  bliss. 
Sketching  pictures  in  a  dream-land 

That  are  never  seen  in  this  ; 
Dashing  from  our  lips  the  pleasure 

Of  the  present,  while  we  sigh. 
You  may  know  this  mischief-maker, 

For  his  name  is  "  By-and-By." 

He  is  sitting  by  our  hearth-stones 

With  his  sly,  bewitching  glance, 
•  Whispering  of  the  coming  morrow. 

As  the  social  hours  advance  ; 
Loitering  'mid  our  calm  reflections, 

Hiding  forms  of  beauty  nigh — 
He's  a  smooth,  deceitful  fellow, 

This  enchanter,  "Byand-By." 

You  may  know  him  by  his  wincing, 

By  his  careless,  sportive  air ; 
By  his  sly,  obtrusive  presence. 

That  is  stra>'ing  everywhere ; 
By  the  trophies  that  he  gathers 

WTiere  his  somber  victims  lie  ; 
For  a  bold,  determined  fellow 

Is  this  conqueror,  "  By-and-By." 

When  the  calls  of  duty  haunt  as, 

And  the  present  seems  to  be 
All  the  time  that  ever  mortals 

Snatch  from  dark  eternity, 
Tlien  a  fairy  hand  seems  painting 

Pictures  on  a  distant  sky  ; 
For  a  cunning  little  artist 

Is  the  fairy,  "  By-and-By." 

"  By-and-By  "  the  wind  is  singing  ; 
"  By-and-By  "  the  heart  replies  ; 
But  the  phantom,  just  before  us, 
Ere  we  graap  it,  ever  flies. 


408 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


ii 


List  not  to  the  idle  charmer, 

Scorn  the  very  specious  He  ; 
Only  in  the  fancy  liveth 

This  deceiver,  "By-and-By." 

J.  W.  Barker. 

LEARN  A  LITTLE  EVERY  DAY. 

,  ITTLE  rills  make  wider  streamlets, 
Streamlets  swell  the  rivers'  flow  ; 
Rivers  join  the  mountain  billows, 

Onward,  onward,  as  they  go  ! 
Life  is  made  of  smallest  fragments, 

Shade  and  sunshine,  work  and  play  ; 
So  may  we,  with  greatest  profit, 
Learn  a  little  every  day. 

Tiny  seeds  make  plenteous  harvests, 

Drops  of  rain  compose  the  showers  ; 
Seconds  make  the  flying  minutes. 

And  the  minutes  make  the  hours  ! 
Let  us  hasten,  then,  and  catch  them. 

As  they  pass  us  on  the  way  ; 
And  with  honest,  true  endeavor, 

Learn  a  little  every  day. 

Let  us  while  we  read  or  study, 

Cull  a  flower  from  every  page  ; 
Here  a  line,  and  there  a  sentence, 

'Gainst  the  lonely  time  of  age  I 
At  our  work  or  by  the  way-side. 

While  we  ponder,  while  we  play, 
Let  us  thus  by  constant  effort 

Learn  a  little  every  day. 


THE  BEST  THAT  I  CAN. 

CAN  not  do  much,"  said  a  little  star, 
*'  To  make  the  dark  world  bright; 
My  silvery  beams  cannot  struggle  far 
Through  the  folding  gloom  of  night; 
But  I  am  a  part  of  God's  great  plan, 
And  I'll  cheerfully  do  the  best  I  can." 

What  is  the  use,"  said  a  fleecy  cloud, 
"  Of  these  few  drops  that  I  hold  ? 
They  will  hardly  bend  the  lily  proud. 

Though  caught  in  her  cup  of  gold  ; 
Yet  am  I  a  part  of  God's  great  plan. 

So  my  treasure  I'll  give  as  well  as  I  can." 

A  child  went  merrily  forth  to  play, 
But  a  thought,  like  a  silver  thread, 

Kept  winding  in  and  out  all  day 
Through  the  happy  golden  head  ; 

And  it  seemed  to  say,  "  Do  all  you  can, 
For  you  are  a  part  of  God's  great  plan." 

She  knew  no  more  than  the  glancing  star, 
Nor  the  cloud  with  its  chalice  full, 


How,  why,  and  for  what  all  strange  things  are — 

She  was  only  a  child  at  school ; 
But  .she  thought,  "  It  is  a  part  of  God's  great  plan 

That  even  I  should  do  all  that  I  can." 
So  she  helped  a  younger  child  along, 

When  the  road  was  rough  to  the  feet; 
And  she  sang  from  her  heart  a  little  song 

That  we  all  thought  was  passing  sweet ; 
And  her  father,  a  weary,  toil-worn  man. 

Said,  •'  I  too,  will  do  the  best  that  I  can." 


THE  GOLDEN  STAIR. 

UT  away  the  little  playthings 
That  the  darling  used  to  wear, 
She  will  need  them  on  earth  never — 
She  has  climbed  the  golden  stair ; 
She  is  with  the  happy  angels, 
And  I  long  for  her  sweet  kiss, 
■  Where  her  little  feet  are  waiting 
In  the  realm  of  perfect  bliss. 

Lay  aside  her  little  playthings 
Wet  with  mother's  pearly  tears — 
How  we  shall  miss  little  Nellie 
All  the  coming,  weary  years  ! 
Fold  the  dainty  little  dresses 
That  she  never  more  will  wear, 
For  her  little  feet  are  waiting 
Up  above  the  golden  stair. 

Kiss  the  little  curly  tresses 
Cut  from  her  bright,  golden  hair — 
Do  the  angels  kiss  our  darling 
In  the  realm  so  bright  and  fair  ? 
Oh !  we  pray  to  meet  our  darling 
For  a  long,  long,  sweet  embrace. 
Where  the  little  feet  are  waiting — 
And  we  meet  her  face  to  face. 

W.  D,  Smith. 

"I  WOULD  IF  I  COULD." 

WOULD  if  I  could,"  though  much  it's  in 

use, 
Is  but  a  mistaken  and  sluggish  excuse  ; 
And  many  a  person  who  could  if  he  would, 
Is  often  heard  saying,  "  I  would  if  I  could." 

"  Come,  John,"  said  a  school-boy,  "  now  do  not  re- 
fuse— 

Come,  solve  me  this  problem ;  you  can  if  you 
choose." 

But  John  at  that  moment  was  not  in  the  mood. 

And  yawningly  answered,  "I  would  if  I  could." 

At  the  door  of  a  mansion  a  child,  thinly  clad. 
While  the  cold  wind  blew  fiercely,  was  begging  for 

bread ; 
A  rich  man  passed  by  her  as  trembling  she  stood, 
And  answered  her  coldly,  "  I  would  if  I  could." 


U4 


CHILDHOOD   AND   YOUTH. 


409 


The  scholar  receiving  his  teacher's  advice, 
The  swearer  admonished  to  quit  such  a  vice, 
The  child  when  requested  to  try  and  be  good. 
Oft  give  the  same  answer,  "I  would  if  I  could." 

But  if  we  may  credit  what  good  people  say, 
That  where  there's  a  will,  there  is  always  a  way  ; 
And  whatever  ought  to  be,  can  be,  and  should — 
We  never  need  utter,  "  I  would  if  I  could." 


PRINCIPLE  PUT  TO  THE  TEST. 

Q  YOUNGSTER  at  school,  more  sedate  than  the 
rest. 
Had  once  his  integrity  put  to  the  test ; 
His  comrades  had  plotted  an  orchard  to  rob, 
And  asked  him  to  go  and  assist  in  the  job. 

He  was  very  much  shocked,  and  answered,  "  O  no  1 
WTiat,  rob  our  good  neighbor  !     I  pray  you  don't  go  ; 
Besides,  the  man's  poor — his  orchard's  his  bread ; 
Then  think  of  his  children,  for  they  must  be  fed." 

"  You  speak  very  fine,  and  you  look  very  grave — 
But  apples  we  want,  and  apples  we'll  have. 
If  you  will  go  with  us,  we'll  give  you  a  share  ; 
If  not,  you  shall  have  neither  apple  nor  pear." 

He  spoke,  and  James  pondered — "  I  see  they  will  go  ; 
Poor  man  !  what  a  pity  to  injure  him  so  ! 
Poor  man  !  I  would  save  him  his  fruit  if  I  could ; 
But  staying  behind  will  do  him  no  good. 

"  If  this  matter  depended  alone  upon  me. 
His  apples  might  hang  till  they  drop  from  the  tree  ; 
But  since  they  will  take  them,  I  think  I'll  go  too  ; 
He  will  lose  none  by  me,  though  I  get  a  few." 

His  scruples  thus  silenced,  James  felt  more  at  ease, 
And  went  with  his  comrades  the  apples  to  seize. 
He  blamed  and  protested,  but  joined  in  the  plan  ; 
He  shared  in  the  plunder,  but  pitied  the  man. 

Conscience  slumbered  awhile,  but  soon  woke  in  his 

breast. 
And  in  language  severe  the  delinquent  addressed : 
"With  such  empty  and  selfish  pretenses  away  ! 
By  your  actions  you're  judged,  be  your  speech  what  it 

may.'  William  Cowper. 


Q 


THE  LITTLE  SUNBEAM. 

LITTLE  sunbeam  in  the  sky 

Said  to  itself  one  day, 
"  I'm  very  small,  yet  why  should  I 
Do  nothing  else  but  play  ? 
I'll  go  down  to  the  earth  and  see 
If  there  is  any  work  for  me." 

The  violet  beds  were  wet  with  dew, 
Which  filled  each  drooping  cup ; 


The  little  sunbeam  darted  through, 

And  raised  their  blue  heads  up. 
They  smiled  to  see  it,  and  they  lent 
The  morning  breeze  their  sweetest  scent. 

A  mother  safe  beneath  a  tree 

Had  left  her  babe  asleep ; 
It  woke  and  cried,  but  when  it  spied 

The  little  sunbeam  peep 
So  slyly  in,  with  glance  so  bright, 
It  laughed  and  chuckled  with  delight. 

Away,  away,  o'er  land  and  sea 

The  merry  sunbeam  went : 
A  ship  was  on  the  waters  free 

From  home  and  country  sent ; 
But  sparkling  in  that  joyous  ray, 
The  blue  waves  danced  around  her  way; 

A  voyager  gazed  with  weary  eye. 

And  heart  of  bitter  pain ; 
With  the  bright  sunbeam  from  the  sky 

Lost  hope  sprang  up  again. 
"The  waves,"  he  said,  "are  full  of  glee, 
Then  yet  there  may  be  some  for  me. ' ' 

The  sunbeam  next  did  not  disdain 

A  window  low  and  small ; 
It  entered  at  the  cottage  pane. 

And  danced  upon  the  wall. 
A  pale  young  face  looked  up  to  meet 
The  radiance  she  had  watched  to  greet 

So  up  and  down,  and  to  and  fro. 
The  sunbeam  glanced  about ; 

And  never  door  was  shut,  I  know. 
To  keep  the  stranger  out. 

But  lo  !  where'er  it  touched  the  earth 

It  seemed  to  wake  up  joy  and  mirth. 

I  can  not  tell  the  history 

Of  all  that  it  could  do ; 
But  this  I  tell,  that  you  may  try 

To  be  a  sunbeam  too — 
By  little  smiles  and  deeds  of  love. 
Which  cheer  like  sunshine  from  above. 


(£) 


DO  YOUR  DUTY. 

O  your  duty,  little  man. 
That's  the  way ! 
There's  some  duty  in  the  plan 
Of  every  day. 
Every  day  has  some  new  task 

For  your  hand ; 
Do  it  bravely — that's  the  way 
Life  grows  grand. 

"  Do  your  duty,"  sing  the  stars, 
That  so  bright 
Through  the  midnight's  dusky  bars, 
Shed  their  light 


410 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


'  Do  your  duty,"  says  the  sun 

High  in  heaven ; 
To  the  dutiful,  when  tasks  are  done, 

Crowns  are  given  : 
Crowns  of  power  and  crowns  of  fame, 

Crowns  of  life  : 
In  glory  bums  the  victor's  name, 

After  strife. 
Do  your  duty,  never  swerve — 

Smooth  or  rough — 
Until  God,  whom  we  all  serve. 

Says,  "Enough." 

LuELLA  Clark. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  LIFE. 

,  O  forth  to  the  battle  of  life,  my  boy, 

Go  while  it  is  called  to-day ; 
For  the  years  go  out,  and  the  years  come  in. 
Regardless  of  those  who  may  lose  or  win — 

Of  those  who  may  work  or  play. 

And  the  troops  march  steadily  on,  my  boy. 

To  the  army  gone  before ; 
You  may  hear  the  sound  of  their  falling  feet, 
Going  down  to  the  river  where  the  two  worlds  meet ; 

They  go  to  return  no  more. 

There  is  room  for  you  in  the  ranks,  my  boy, 

And  duty,  too,  assigned. 
Step  into  the  front  with  a  cheerful  grace — 
Be  quick,  or  another  may  take  your  place, 

And  you  may  be  left  behind. 

There  is  work  to  do  by  the  way,  my  boy, 

That  you  never  can  tread  again  ; 
Work  for  the  loftiest,  lowliest  men — 
Work  for  the  plough,  adz,  spindle,  and  pen ; 

Work  for  the  hands  and  the  brain. 

Then  go  to  the  battle  of  life,  my  boy. 

In  the  beautiful  days  of  youth  ; 
Put  on  the  helmet,  breastplate,  and  shield. 
And  the  sword  that  the  feeblest  arm  may  wield 

In  the  cause  of  right  and  truth. 


Hi 


lU 


WANTED,  A  BOY. 

ANTED,  a  boy  !'    Well,  how  glad  I  am 
To  know  that  I  was  the  first  to  see 
The  daily  paper — so  early  too — 
Few  boys  are  up — 'tis  lucky  for  me." 
You  hurry  away  through  quiet  streets. 
Breathlessly  reaching  the  office  door 
Where  a  boy  was  wanted,  and  lo  !  you  find 
It  thronged  and  besieged  by  at  least  a  score. 

' '  Wanted,  a  boy ! "     So  the  place  was  gone  ; 
You  did  not  get  it  ?    Well,  never  mind. 
The  world  is  large,  and  a  vacant  place 
Is  somewhere  in  it  for  you  to  find : 


Perhaps  by  long  and  devious  ways. 
With  perils  to  face,  and  battles  to  win, 

Obstacles  great  to  be  overcome. 
Before  you  reach  it,  and  enter  in. 

Philosophy  surely  wanted  a  boy, 

While  Franklin  worked  at  a  printer's  case ; 
Mechanics,  when,  low  in  the  darkened  mine. 

By  an  engine,  Stephenson  found  his  place; 
Nature,  while  Linnaeus,  crushed  and  tried 

As  a  cobbler,  toiled  out  his  sunless  youth  ; 
Freedom,  ere  Washington  reached  her  arms 

From  childhood,  up  by  the  way  of  truth. 

Wanted,  a  boy  !  "  't  is  written  above 

Coveted  places  of  highest  renown  ; 
But  the  ladder  of  labor  must  ever  be  trod 

By  boyish  feet,  ere  the  sign  comes  down. 
There  are  humble  names  half  hidden  now 

On  the  school  day  roll,  'mong  many  a  score. 
That  yet  will  shine  as  the  lights  of  fame. 

Till  boys  are  wanted  on  earth  no  more. 

The  forum  is  echoing  burning  words 

Of  orators  destined  to  pass  away  ; 
Vou  will  be  wanted  instead  of  them  soon. 

Men  of  the  future  are  boys  to  day. 
The  watchmen  standing  on  Zion's  walls, 

Faithfully  doing  the  Master's  will. 
Are  falling  asleep  as  the  years  go  by; — 

Wanted,  a  boy  each  place  to  fill. 

Mary  B.  Reese. 

THE  PET  LAMB. 

HE  dew  was  falling  fast ;  the  stars  began  to 
blink ; 
I  heard  a  voice ;  it  said,  "  Drink,  pretty  creature, 
drink :" 

And,  looking  o'er  the  hedge,  before  me  I  espied 
A  snow-white  mountain  lamb,  with  a  maiden  at  its 
side. 

No  other  sheep  were  near  ;  the  lamb  was  all  alone. 
And  by  a  slender  cord  was  tethered  to  a  stone ; 
With  one  knee  on  the  grass  did  the  little  maiden  kneel. 
While  to  that  mountain  lamb  she  gave  its  evening  meal. 

'Twas  little  Barbara  Lethwaite,  a  child  of  beauty  rare  ! 
I  watched  them  with  delight :  they  were  a  lovely  pair. 
Now  with  her  empty  can  the  maiden  turned  away ; 
But  ere  ten  yards  were  gone,  her  footsteps  she  did  stay. 

Towards  the  lamb  she  looked  ;  and  from  a  shady  place 
I,  unobserved,  could  see  the  workings  of  her  face ; 
If  nature  to  her  tongue  could  measured  numbers  bring. 
Thus,  thought  I,  to  her  lamb  that  little  maid  might 
sing  :— 

"What  ails  thee,  young  one?  what?    Why  pull  so  at 

thy  cord  ? 
Is  it  not  well  with  thee  ?  well  both  for  bed  and  board  ? 


CHILDHOOD   AND   YOUTH. 


411 


Thy  plot  of  grass  is  soft,  and  green  as  grass  can  be  ; 
Rest,  little  young  one,  rest ;  what  is't  that  aileth  thee  ? 

"  What  is  it  thou  wouldst  seek  ?    What  is  wanting  to 

thy  heart  ? 
Thy  limbs,  are  they  not  strong?  and  beautiful  thou  art. 
This  grass  is  tender  grass ;  these  flowers  they  have  no 

peers ; 
And  that  green  com  all  day  is  rustling  in  thy  ears  ? 

''  If  the  sun  be  shining  hot,  do  but  stretch  thy  woolen 

chain — 
This  birch  is  standing  by ;  its  covi~rt  thou  canst  gain  ; 
For  rain  and  mountain  storms — the  like  thou  aeed'st 

not  fear : 
The  rain  and  storm  are  things  that  scarcely  can  come 

here. 

"  Rest,  little  young  one,  rest ;  thou  hast  forgot  the  day 
When  my  father  found  thee  first  in  places  far  away  ; 
Many  flocks  were  on  the  hills,  but  thou  wert  owned  by 

none, 
And  thy  mother  from  thy  side  forevermore  was  gone. 

"  He  took  thee  in  his  arms,  and  in  pity  brought  thee 

home ; 
O,  blessed  day  for  thee.    Then  whither  wouldst  thou 

roam? 
A  faithful  nurse  thou  hast :  the  dam  that  did  thee  yean. 
Upon  the  mountain  tops,  no  kinder  could  have  been. 

"Thou  know'st  that  twice  a  day  I  have  brought  thee 

in  this  can 
Fresh  water  from  the  brook,  as  clear  as  ever  ran  ; 
And  twice  in  the  day,  when  the  ground  is  wet  with 

dew, 
I  bring  thee  draughts  of  milk — warm  milk  it  is,  and 

new. 

"Thy  limbs  will  shortly  be  twice  as  stout  as  they  are 

now; 
Then  I'll  yoke  thee  to  my  cart,  like  a  pony  in  the  plow. 
My  playmate  thou  shalt  be ;  and  when  the  wind  is  cold 
Our  hearth  shall  be  thy  bed,  our  house  shall  be  thy 

fold. 

"Alas,  the  mountain  tops  that  look  so  green  and  fair ! 
I've  heard  of  fearful  winds  and  darkness  that  come 

there ; 
The  little  brooks,  that  seem  all  pastime  and  all  play, 
When  they  are  angry,  roar  like  lions  for  their  prey. 

"  Here  thou  need'st  not  dread  the  raven  in  the  sky ; 
Night  and  day  thou  art  safe  ;  our  cottage  is  hard  by. 
Why  bleat  so  after  me  ?  Why  pull  so  at  thy  chain  ? 
Sleep,  and  at  break  of  day  I  will  come  to  thee  again." 

As  homeward  through  the  lane  I  went  with  lazy  feet, 
This  song  to  myself  did  I  oftentimes  repeat ; 
And  it  seemed,  as  I  retraced  the  ballad,  line  by  line. 
That  but  half  of  it  was  hers,  and  one  half  of  it  was 
mine. 


Again,  and  once  again,  did  I  repeat  the  song : 
"Nay,"  said  I,  "more  than  half  to  the  damsel  must 

belong ; 
For  she  looked  with  such  a  look,  and  she  spoke  with 

■  such  a  tone. 
That  I  almost  received  her  heart  into  my  own." 

William  Wordsworth. 


e 


THE  SCULPTOR  BOY. 

HISEL  in  hand,  stood  a  sculptor  boy, 
With  his  marble  block  before  him ; 
And  his  face  lit  up  with  a  smile  of  joy 
As  an  angel  dream  passed  o'er  him. 
He  carved  that  dream  on  the  yielding  stone. 

With  many  a  sharp  incision  ; 
In  Heaven's  own  light  the  sculptor  shone — 
He  had  caught  that  angel  vision. 

Sculptors  of  life  are  we,  as  we  stand 

With  our  lives  uncarved  before  us, 
Waiting  the  hour,  when,  at  God's  command, 

Our  life-dream  passes  o'er  us. 
Let  us  car\'e  it,  then,  on  the  yielding  stone, 

With  many  a  sharp  incision  ; 
Its  heavenly  beauty  shall  be  our  own — 

Our  lives,  that  angel  vision. 

W.    C.   DOANE. 

MY  BIRD'S  NEST. 

MUST  tell  you  a  little  story 
(True,  every  word), 
How  once,  out  of  the  South-land  early 
Came  a  bird. 
To  a  home  in  the  midst  of  green  grass 

And  high  trees, 
And  the  little  birds  never  were  frightened 
Out  of  these. 

And  this  one  went  flying,  a  week, 

In  and  out 
Of  first  one  tree,  and  then  anothar, 

All  about — 
As  men  hunt  after  homes  for  their  children, 

In  a  city — 
Which  too  often  they  cannot  find — 

More's  the  pity ; 
But  our  bird  could  ;  for  once  on  a  time. 

Like  a  bird. 
On  a  blossoming  branch  we  discovered 

Bits  of  mud, 
Which  we  knew  for  a  brave  beginning, 

Then  a  straw  — 

And  so,  little  by  little,  was  builded. 

Without  a  flaw, 
A  home  fit  for  a  queen  of  birds 

But  no  queen 
Was  she,  with  her  yellow-brown  wings ; 


412 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


You  have  seen 
A  hundred  far  fairer,  I  know, 

Every  year, 
But  never  to  me,  was  another 

Half  so  dear : 
For  she,  flying  east,  flying  west, 

Had  a  song — 
A  song  for  her  work  and  her  rest. 

All  day  long. 

And  full  oft  was  her  cheerful  twitter 

.First  to  greet 
My  ear,  in  the  bright  summer  morning  ; 

Low  and  sweet 
Was  always  her  song,  and  at  night 

I  could  hear 
Her  chirruping  still,  in  the  nest. 

'Twas  so  near 
I  could  reach  with  my  hands  the  green  leaves 

Where  it  lay ; 
So,  all  summer,  I  wondered,  and  watched. 

Day  by  day, 
The  glad  life  that  it  held — always  glad, 

Rain  or  shine. 

That  song  never  ceased :  never  sad, 

Half  divine 
Seemed  sometimes  the  sweet  voice  to  my  soul. 

Giving  rest 
And  deep  peace,  strange  gifts  for  a  bird 

On  her  nest. 

But  at  last,  the  white  night  frosts  of  autumn 

Chilled  the  air ; 
And  one  day  the  bird  flew  away  singing. 

Who  knows  where  ? 
And  here,  now,  is  the  nest,  on  my  table. 

Miles  away — 
A  thousand — from  where  it  was  builded  ; 

And  each  day, 
I  look  at  its  soft  hair  lining, 

And  I  hear 
The  songs  of  those  summer  mornings. 

Sweet  and  clear. 
Hear  them  still,  for  a  life  that  is  glad„ 

Child's  or  bird'^, 
Has  an  echo  of  song,  far  sweeter  than 

Any  sweet  words. 

LuELLA  Clark. 


fi 


"  LITTLE  NAN." 

ITTLE  Nan  Gordon, 
With  the  red  hair, 
Down  by  the  post-office, 
You  know  where. 
Sold  big,  red  apples, 

Two  for  a  cent, 
Gum-drops,  lozenges, 
Rose  peppermint, 


Left  her  stand 

In  the  broad  daylight. 
Ran  clear  up  here 

In  a  terrible  fright. 
"Tell  the  doctor 

To  please  come  quick. 
There's  a  man,"  she  said, 

"  That's  awful  sick. 
A  poor  old  man 

Got  hurt  by  a  cart; 
Nobody'd  come 

And  I  hadn't  the  heart 
To  stand  like  the  rest 

And  only  stare. 
So  I  had  to  come, 

And  I  wouldn't  care 
If  the  boys  stole  everything  I  had  ; 

I'd  rather  be  poor 
Than  be  so  bad." 

I'll  tell  you  what 
My  mamma  said 

That  very  night 
When  she  put  me  to  bed. 

A  beautiful  angel 
With  shiny  wings. 

One  of  the  kind 
That  always  sings, 

Will  come  some  time 
And  find  little  Nan, 

Who  forgot  herself 
And  for  sick  folks  ran  ; 

He'll  take  her  hand 
And  say  to  her,  "Come 

And  go  with  me." 
And  he'll  show  her  his  home, 

Where  no  one  is  selfish 
And  loves  his  ease, 

But  every  one  tries 
All  the  rest  to  please. 
I  tell  you  what 

I'd  like  to  go. 
And  a  good  many  boys 

And  girls  that  I  know ; 
And  we're  going  to  try 

Very  hard  to  do 
All  that  is  right, 

And  to  tell  what's  true ; 
Now,  don't  you  think 

That  if  we  do 
An  angel  will  come 
And  take  us  too  ? 


G.  W.  Thomaji. 


"LITTLE    NAN." 

A  SEQUEL. 

ITTLE  Nan  Gordon, 
With  the  red  hair, 
Ran  back  to  her  stand. 
You  know  where. 


CHILDHOOD  AND   YOUTH. 


413 


And  told  the  sick  man  : 
"  The  doctor  will  come, 
Quick  as  he  can, 
And  take  you  home." 

But  what  a  surprise 
There  met  her  eyes  ; 
None  cared  for  poor  Nan 
While  she  cared  for  the  man. 

While  she  was  gone 

Some  awful  bad  boys 
Stole  her  apples,  gum-droF>s, 

Money  and  toys ; 
Turned  over  her  stand, 

In  the  broad  daylight, 
And  left  what  they  left, 

In  a  terrible  plight ; 
Stamped  on  her  basket. 

And  did — what  boys  can — 
All  that  they  could 

To  injure  poor  Nan, 
Who  cried  at  her  loss, 

But  still  was  real  glad 
That  she  did  what  was  good, 

If  others  were  bad. 

But  an  angel  stood  by, 
With  a  smile  on  his  face 

And  a  tear  in  his  eye, 
Who  whispered,  quite  softly, 
"  I'll  make  it  all  right 

With  Nan  bye-and-bye." 

The  very  next  morning, 
When  Nan  got  there — 
Down  by  the  post-office, 

You  know  where — 
Big,  red  apples, 

Two  for  a  cent, 
Gum-drops  and  candies, 

Rose  peppermint — 
Lots  of  things  she  hadn't  before, 

Of  such  as  she  did  have 
Twice  as  much  more ; 

A  nice  new  table, 
A  nice  money-drawer. 

For  the  money  stolen 
Twice  as  much  more  ; 

New  baskets  and  candy-jars. 
Clean  and  briglit. 

All  ready  for  Nan 
In  the  broad  daylight. 

And  the  angel  stood  by. 
With  a  stick  in  his  hand, 

Keeping  bad  boys 
Away  from  the  stand. 

Then  he  kissed  little  Nan, 
With  the  red  hair, 


And  gave  her  the  things 
That  he'd  fixed  for  her  there. 

So  twice  glad  was  Nan 
That  she  went  to  get  help 

For  the  sick  old  man. 

Moral. 

'Tisn't  always  true  what  folks  frequently  say. 
That  children  must  wait  till  the  judgment  day 
Before  their  good  actions  will  draw  any  pay ; 
But  this  is  the  point— Nan  did  what  she  could. 
What  made  her  real  glad  was  she  was  real  good  ; 
To  have  angel's  help  you  needn't  wait  till  you  die, 
Do  good  when  you  can,  the  angel  stands  by. 

A.   W.  Dodge, 


^ 


THE  FAIRIES. 

P  the  airy  mountain, 

Down  the  rushy  glen. 
We  dare  n't  go  a  hunting 

For  fear  of  little  men ; 
Wee  folk,  good  folk. 

Trooping  all  together; 
Green  jacket,  red  cap, 

And  white  owl's  feather  ! 

Down  along  the  rocky  shore 

Some  make  their  home — 
They  live  on  crispy  pancakes 

Of  yellow  tide-foam ; 
Some  in  the  reeds 

Of  the  black  mountain-lake. 
With  frogs  for  their  watch-dogs 

AH  night  awake. 

High  on  the  hill-top 

The  old  King  sits  ; 
He  is  now  so  old  and  gray 

He's  nigh  lost  his  wits. 
With  a  bridge  of  white  mist 

Columbkill  he  crosses, 
On  his  stately  journeys 

From  Slieveleague  to  Rosses : 
Or  going  up  with  music 

On  cold  starry  nights. 
To  sup  with  the  queen 

Of  the  gay  northern  lights. 

They  stole  little  Bridget 

For  seven  years  long  ; 
When  she  came  down  again 

Her  friends  were  all  gone. 
They  took  her  lightly  back, 

Between  the  night  and  morrow ; 
They  thought  that  she  was  fast  asleep, 

But  she  was  dead  with  sorrow. 
They  have  kept  her  ever  since 

Deep  within  the  lakes, 
On  a  bed  of  flag-leaves, 

Watching  till  she  wakes. 


414 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


By  the  craggy  hillside, 

Through  the  mosses  bare, 
They  have  planted  thorn-trees 

For  pleasure  here  and  there. 
Is  any  man  so  daring 

To  dig  one  up  in  spite, 
He  shall  find  the  thornies  set 

In  his  bed  at  night. 

Up  the  airy  mountain, 

Down  the  rushy  glen. 
We  dare  n't  go  a  hunting 

For  fear  of  little  men  ; 
Wee  folk,  good  folk, 

Trooping  all  together ; 
Green  jacket,  red  cap. 

And  white  owl's  feather ! 

William  Allingham. 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  MY  CHRISTMAS  TREE. 

HAVE  been  looking  on,  this  evening,  at  a  merry 
company  of  children  assembled  round  that 
pretty  German  toy,  a  Christmas  tree. 
Being  now  at  home  again,  and  alone,  the  only 
person  in  the  house  awake,  my  thoughts  are  drawn 
back,  by  a  fascination  which  I  do  not  care  to  resist,  to 
my  own  childhood.  Straight  in  the  middle  of  the 
room,  cramped  in  the  freedom  of  its  growth  by  no  en- 
circling walls  or  soon  reached  ceiling,  a  shadowy  tree 
arises  ;  and,  looking  up  into  the  dreamy  brightness  of 
its  top — for  I  observe  in  this  tree  the  singular  property 
that  it  appears  to  grow  downward  towards  the  earth, 
— I  look  into  my  youngest  Christmas  recollections. 

All  toys  at  first  I  find.  But  upon  the  branches  of 
the  tree  lower  down,  how  thick  the  books  begin  to 
hang  !  Thin  books,  in  themselves,  at  first,  but  many 
of  them,  with  deliciously  smooth  covers  of  bright  red 
or  green.    What  fat  black  letters  to  begin  with  ! 

"  A  was  an  archer,  and  shot  at  a  frog."  Of  course 
he  was.  He  was  an  apple-pie  also,  and  there  he  is  ! 
He  was  a  good  many  things  in  his  time,  was  A,  and 
so  were  most  of  his  friends,  except  X,  who  had  so 
little  versatility  that  I  never  knew  him  to  get  beyond 
Xerxes  or  Xantippe :  like  Y,  who  was  always  con- 
fined to  a  yacht  or  a  yew-tree :  and  Z,  condemned 
forever  to  be  a  zebra  or  a  zany. 

But  now  the  very  tree  itself  changes,  and  becomes  a 
bean-stalk— the  marvelous  bean-stalk  by  which  Jack 


climbed  up  to  the  gianfs  house.  Jack — how  noble, 
with  his  sword  of  sharpness  and  his  shoes  of  swift- 
ness. 

Good  for  Christmas-time  is  the  ruddy  color  of  the 
cloak  in  whicli  the  tree  making  a  forest  of  itself  for 
her  to  trip  through  with  her  basket.  Little  Red  Rid- 
ing-Hood comes  to  me  one  Christmas  eve,  to  give  me 
information  of  the  cruelty  and  treachery  of  that  dis- 
sembling wolf  who  ate  her  grandmother,  without 
making  any  impression  on  his  appetite,  and  then  ate 
after  making  that  ferocious  joke  about  his  teeth.  She 
was  my  first  love.  I  felt  that  if  I  could  have  married 
Little  Red  Riding  Hood  I  should  have  known  perfect 
bliss.  But  it  was  not  to  be,  and  there  was  nothing 
for  it  but  to  look  out  the  wolf  in  the  Noah's  Ark  there, 
and  put  him  late  in  the  procession,  on  the  table,  as  a 
monster  who  was  to  be  degraded. 

Oh,  the  wonderful  Noah's  Ark  !  It  was  not  found 
seaworthy  when  put  in  a  washing-tub,  and  the  ani- 
mals were  crammed  in  at  the  roof,  and  needed  to 
have  their  legs  well  shaken  down  before  they  could  be 
got  in  even  there  ;  and  then  ten  to  one  but  they  began 
to  tumble  out  at  the  door,  which  was  but  imperfectly 
fastened  with  a  wire  latch  ;  but  what  was  that  against 
it? 

Consider  the  noble  fly,  a  size  or  two  smaller  than 
the  elephant;  the  lady-bird,  the  butterfly— ail  triumphs 
of  art !  Consider  the  goose,  whose  feet  were  so  small, 
and  whose  balance  was  so  indifferent  that  he  usually 
tumbled  forward  and  knocked  down  all  the  animal 
creation !  Consider  Noah  and  his  family,  like  idiotic 
tobacco  stoppers ;  and  how  the  leopard  stuck  to 
warm  little  fingers ;  and  how  the  tails  of  the  larger 
animals  used  gradually  to  resolve  themselves  into 
frayed  bits  of  string. 

Encircled  by  the  social  thoughts  of  Christmas  time, 
still  let  the  benignant  figure  of  my  childhood  stand  un- 
changed !  In  every  cheerful  image  and  suggestion 
that  the  season  brings,  may  the  bright  star  that  rested 
above  the  poor  roof  be  the  star  of  all  the  Christian 
world ! 

A  moment's  pause,  O  vanishing  tree,  of  which  the 
lower  boughs  are  dark  to  me  yet,  and  let  me  look 
once  more.  I  know  there  are  blank  spaces  on  thy 
branch's,  where  eyes  that  I  have  loved  have  shone 
and  smiled,  from  which  they  are  departed.  But,  far 
above,  I  see  the  Raiser  of  the  dead  girl  and  the 
widow's  son — and  God  is  good  ! 

Charles  Dickens. 


DRilMllTIC  SELECTIONS. 


DESCRIPTION  OF  JANE  DE  MONTFORT. 

AGE. — Madam,  there 

is  a  lady  in  your  hall 

Who  begs  to  be  admitted 

to  your  presence. 

Lady.    Is  it  not  one  of 

our  invited  friends  ? 

Page.    No ;  far  unlike  to 
them.     It  is  a  stranger. 

Lady.    How  looks  her  coun- 
tenance? 
Page.    So  queenly,   so  com- 
manding, and  so  noble, 
I  shnmk  at   first  in   awe;  but 

when  she  smiled, 
Methought  I  could  have  com- 
passed sea  and  land 
To  do  her  bidding. 
Lady.     Is  she  young  or  old  ? 
Page.     Neither,  if  right  I  guess  ;  but  she  is  fair, 
For  Time  hath  laid  his  hand  so  gently  on  her, 
As  he,  too,  had  been  awed. 

Lady.    The  foolish  strippling ! 
She  has  bewitched  thee.     Is  she  large  in  stature  ? 

Page.    So  stately  and  so  graceful  is  her  form, 
I  thought  at  first  her  stature  was  gigantic  ; 
But  on  a  near  approach,  I  found,  in  truth, 
She  scarcely  doth  surpass  the  middle  size. 
Lady.    What  is  her  garb  ? 
Pa^e.     I  cannot  well  describe  the  fashion  of  it : 
She  is  not  decked  in  any  gallant  trim, 
But  seems  to  me  clad  in  her  usual  weeds 
Of  high  habitual  state  ;  for  as  she  moves. 
Wide  flows  her  robe  in  many  a  waving  fold, 
As  I  have  seen  unfurled  banners  play 
With  the  soft  breeze. 

Lady.    Thine  eyes  deceive  thee,  boy  ; 
It  is  an  apparition  thou  hast  seen. 
Freberg.     \_Starting  from  his  seat,  where  he  has 
been  sitting  during  the  conversation  be- 
tween the  Lady  and  the  Page.'\ 

It  is  an  apparition  he  has  seen. 


Or  It  is  Jane  de  Montfort. 


Joanna  Baillie. 


SPEECH  OF  PRINCE  EDWARD  IN  HIS 
DUNGEON. 


® 


OTH  the  bright  sun  from  the  high  arch  of  heaven. 
In  all  his  beauteous  robes  of  fleckered  clouds. 
And  ruddy  vapors,  and  deep-glowing  flames, 
And  softly  varied  shades,  look  gloriously? 


Do  the  green  woods  dance  to  the  wind  ?  the  lakes 

Cast  up  their  sparkling  wa^rs  to  the  light  ? 

Do  the  sweet  hamlets  in  their  bushy  dells 

Send  winding  up  to  heaven  their  curling  smoke 

On  the  soft  morning  air? 

Do  the  flocks  bleat,  and  the  wild  creatures  bound 

In  antic  happiness  !  and  mazy  birds 

Wing  the  mid  air  in  lightly  skimming  bands  ? 

Ay,  all  this  is— men  do  behold  all  this — 

The  poorest  man.     Even  in  this  lonely  vault, 

My  dark  and  narrow  world,  oft  do  I  hear 

The  crowing  of  the  cock  so  near  my  walls. 

And  sadly  think  how  small  a  space  divides  me 

From  all  this  fair  creation. 

Joanna  Baillie. 

THE  GROWTH  OF  MURDEROUS  HATE. 

\^Scene  front  De  Montfort.'] 

De  Montfort  explains  to  his  sister  Jane  his  hatred  of  Rezenvelt, 
which  at  last  hurries  him  into  the  crime  of  murder.  The  gradual 
deepening  of  this  malignant  passion,  and  its  frightful  catastrophe, 
are  powerfully  depicted.  We  may  remark,  that  the  character  of 
De  Montfort,  his  altered  habits  and  appearance  after  his  travels, 
his  settled  gloom,  and  the  violence  of  his  passions,  seem  to  have 
been  the  prototype  of  Byron's  Manfred  and  Lara. 

E  MONTFORT.   No  more,  my  sister;  urge 
me  not  again  : 
My  secret  troubles  cannot  be  revealed. 
From  all  participation  of  its  thoughts 
My  heart  recoils  :  I  pray  thee,  be  contented, 

Jane.    What !  must  I,  like  a  distant  humble  friend. 
Observe  thy  restless  eye  and  gait  disturbed 
In  timid  silence,  whilst  with  yearning  heart 
I  turn  aside  to  weep  ?    O  no,  De  Montfort ! 
A  nobler  task  thy  nobler  mind  will  give ; 
Thy  true  intrusted  friend  I  still  shall  be. 

De  Mon.    Ah,  Jane,  forbear !    I  cannot  e'en  to  thee. 

Jane.    Then  fie  upon  it !  fie  upon  it,  Montfort ; 
There  was  a  time  when  e'en  with  murder  stained, 
Had  it  been  possible  that  such  dire  deed 
Could  e'er  have  been  the  crime  of  one  so  piteous, 
Thou  wouldst  have  told  it  me. 

De  Mon.    So  would  I  now — but   ask  of  this  no 
more. 
All  other  troubles  but  the  one  I  feel 
I  have  disclosed  to  thee.    I  pray  thee,  spare  me. 
It  is  the  secret  weakness  of  my  nature. 

Jane.    Then  secret  let  it  be  :  I  urge  no  further. 
The  eldest  of  our  valiant  father's  hopes. 
So  sadly  orphaned  :  side  by  side  we  stood. 
Like  two  young  trees,  whose  boughs  in  early  strength 
Screen  the  weak  saplings  of  the  rising  grove. 
And  brave  the  storm  together. 


© 


(415) 


416 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


I  have  so  long,  as  if  by  nature's  right, 
Thy  bosom's  inmate  and  adviser  been, 
I  thought  through  Hfe  I  should  have  so  remained, 
Nor  ever  know  a  change.     Forgive  me,  Montfort; 
A  humbler  station  will  I  take  by  thee  ; 
The  close  attendant  of  thy  wandering  steps. 
The  cheerer  of  this  hom5,  with  strangers  sought, 
The  soother  of  those  griefs,  I  must  not  know. 
This  is  mine  office  now  :  I  ask  no  more. 

De  Mon.     Oh,  Jane,  thou  dost  constrain  me  with 

thy  love — 
Would  I  could  tell  it  thee ! 
Jane.    Thou  shalt  not  tell  me.     Nay,  I'll  stop  mine 

ears, 
Nor  from  the  yearnings  of  affection  wring 
What    shrinks    from    utterance.      Let    it    pass,  my 

brother. 
I'll  stay  by  thee  ;  I'll  cheer  thee,  comfort  thee  ; 
Pursue  with  thee  the  study  of  some  art, 
Or  nobler  science,  that  compels  the  mind 
To  steady  thought  progressive,  driving  forth 
All  floating,  wild,  unhappy  fantasies, 
Till  thou,  with  brow  unclouded,  smilest  again  ; 
Lik»  one  who,  from  dark  visions  of  the  night, 
When  the  active  soul  within  its  lifeless  cell 
Holds  its  own  world,  with  dreadful  fancy  pressed 
Of  some  dire,  terrible,  or  murderous  deed, 
Wakes  to  the  dawning  morn,  and  blesses  Heaven. 
De  Mon.  It  will  not  pass  away;  'twill  haunt  me  stWl. 
Jane.  Ah  !  say  not  so,  for  I  will  haunt  thee  too, 
And  be  to  it  so  close  an  adversary, 
That,  though  I  wrestle  darkling  with  the  fiend, 
I  shall  o'ercome  it. 

De  Mon.  Thou  most  generous  woman, 
Why  do  I  treat  thee  thus?    It  should  not  be — 
And  yet  I  cannot — O  that  cursed  villain  ! 
He  would  not  let  me  be  the  man  I  would. 
Jane.  What  sayest  thou,  Montfort  ?  Oh  !  what  words 

are  these  1 
They  have  awaked  my  soul  to  dreadful  thoughts. 
I  do  beseech  thee,  speak  ! 
By  the  affection  thou  did'st  ever  bear  ma  ; 
By  the  dear  memory  of  our  infant  days  ; 
By  kindred  living  ties — ay,  and  by  those 
Who  sleep  in  the  tomb,  and  cannot  call  to  thee, 
I  do  conjure  thee,  speak ! 

Ha  !  wilt  thou  not? 
Then,  if  affection,  most  unwearied  love, 
Tried  early,  long,  and  never  wanting  found, 
O'er  generous  man  hath  more  authority. 
More  rightful  power  than  crown  or  sceptre  give, 
I  do  command  thee  I 
De  Montfort,  do  not  thus  resist  my  love. 
Here  I  entreat  thee  on  my  bended  knees. 
Alas !  my  brother ! 

De  Mon.  \^Raising  her,  and  kneeling.'] 
Thus  let  him  kneel  who  should  the  abased  be. 
And  at  thine  honored  feet  confession  make. 
I'll  tell  thee  all— but,  oh !  thou  wilt  despise  me. 


For  in  my  breast  a  raging  passion  bums, 
To  which  thy  soul  no  sympathy  will  own — 
A  passion  which  hath  made  my  nightly  couch 
A  place  of  torment,  and  the  light  of  day. 
With  the  gay  intercourse  of  social  man, 
Feel  like  the  oppressive,  airless  pestilence. 

0  Jane  !  thou  wilt  despise  me. 
Jane.  Say  not  so : 

1  never  can  despise  thee,  gentle  brother. 
A  lover's  jealousy  and  hopeless  pangs 
No  kindly  heart  contemns. 

De  Mon.  A  lover's,  sayest  thou  ? 
No,  it  is  hate  !  black,  lasting,  deadly  hate  ! 
Which  thus  hath  driven  me  forth  from  kindred  peace. 
From  social  pleasure,  from  my  native  home, 
To  be  a  sullen  wanderer  on  the  earth. 
Avoiding  all  men,  cursing  and  accursed. 

Jane.  De  Montfort,  this  is  fiend-like,  terrible ! 
What  being,  by  the  Almighty  Father  formed 
Of  flesh  and  blood,  created  even  as  thou, 
Could  in  thy  breast  such  horrid  tempest  wake. 
Who  art  thyself  his  fellow  ? 
Unknit  thy  brows,  and  spread  those  wrath-clenched 

hands. 
Some  sprite  accursed  within  thy  bosom  mates 
To  work  thy  ruin.     Strive  with  it,  my  brother  ! 
Strive  bravely  with  it ;  drive  it  from  thy  heart ; 
'Tis  the  degrader  of  a  noble  heart. 
Curse  it,  and  bid  it  part. 

De  Mon.  It  will  not  part.    I've  lodged  it  here  too 
long. 
With  my  first  cares,  I  felt  its  rankling  touch. 
I  loathed  him  when  a  boy. 

Jane.  Whom  didst  thou  say? 

De  Mon.  Detested  Rezenvelt ! 
E'en  in  our  early  sports,  like  two  young  whelps 
Of  hostile  breed,  instinctively  averse, 
Each  'gainst  the  other  pitched  his  ready  pledge. 
And  frowned  defiance.    As  we  onward  passed 
From  youth  to  man's  estate,  his  narrow  art 
And  envious  gibing  malice,  poorly  veiled 
In  the  affected  carelessness  of  mirth, 
Still  more  detestable  and  odious  grew. 
There  is  no  living  being  on  this  earth 
Who  can  conceive  the  malice  of  his  soul, 
With  all  his  gay  and  damned  merriment. 
To  those  by  fortune  or  by  merit  placed 
Above  his  paltry  self.    When,  low  in  fortune, 
He  looked  upon  the  state  of  prosperous  men, 
As  nightly  birds,  roused  from  their  murky  holes, 
Do  scowl  and  chatter  at  the  light  of  day, 
I  could  endure  it ;  even  as  we  bear 
The  impotent  bite  of  some  half-trodden  worm, 
I  could  endure  it.     But  when  honors  came. 
And  wealth  and  new-got  titles  fed  his  pride  ; 
Whilst  flattering  knaves  did  trumpet  forth  his  praise, 
And  grovelling  idiots  grinned  applause  on  him  ; 
Oh  !  then  I  could  no  longer  suffer  it ! 
It  drove  me  frantic.    What,  what  would  I  give — 


DRAMATIC  SELECTIONS. 


417 


What  would  I  give  to  crush  the  bloated  toad, 
So  rankly  do  I  loathe  him  ! 

Jane.  And  would  thy  katred  crush  the  very  man 
Who  gave  to  thee  that  life  he  might  liave  taken  ? 
That  life  which  thou  so  rashly  did  t  expose 
To  aim  at  his  ?    Oh,  this  is  horrible  ! 
De  Mon.  Ha !    thou  hast  heard  it  then !    From  all 
the  world, 
But  most  of  all  Irom  thee,  I  thought  it  hid. 

Jane.  I  heard  a  secret  whisper,  and  resolved 
lUpon  the  instant  to  return  to  thee. 
'Didst  thou  receive  my  letter? 

De  Mon.  I  did  !  I  did  !    'Twas  that  which  drove  me 
thither. 
I  could  not  bear  to  meet  thine  eye  again. 

Jane.  Alas  !  that  tempted  by  a  sister's  tears, 
I  ever  left  thy  house  !    These  few  past  months, 
These  absent  months,  have  brought  us  all  this  woe. 
Had  I  remained  with  thee,  it  had  not  been. 
And  yet,  methinks,  it  should  not  move  you  thus. 
You  dared  him  to  the  field  ;  both  bravely  fought ; 
He,  more  adroit,  disarmed  you  ;  courteously 
Returned  the  forfeit  sword,  which,  so  returned, 
You  did  refuse  to  use  against  him  more ; 
And  then,  as  says  report,  you  parted  friends. 
De  Mon.  When  he  disarmed  this  cursed,  this  worth- 
less hand 
Of  its  most  worthless  weapon,  he  but  spared 
From  devilish  pride,  which  now  derives  a  bliss 
In  seeing  me  thus  fettered,  shamed,  subjected 
With  the  vile  favor  of  his  poor  forbearance  ; 
Whilst  he  securely  sits  with  gibing  brow. 
And  basely  baits  me  like  a  muzzled  cur. 
Who  cannot  turn  again. 
Until  that  day,  till  that  accursed  day, 
I  knew  not  half  the  torment  of  this  hell 
Which  bums  within  my  breast.     Heaven's  lightnings 
blast  him ! 
Jane.  Oh,  this  is  horrible !     Forbear,  forbear ! 
Lest  Heaven's  vengeance  light  upon  thy  head 
For  this  most  impious  wish. 

De  Mon.  Then  let  it  light. 
Torments  more  fell  than  I  have  known  already 
It  cannot  send.     To  be  annihilated. 
What  all  m^n  shrink  from  ;  to  be  dust,  be  nothing. 
Were  bliss  to  me  compared  with  what  I  am ! 
Jane.  Oh  !  wouldst  thou  kill  me  with  these  dreadful 

words  ? 
De  Mon.  Let  me  but  once  upon  his  ruin  look. 

Then  close  mine  eyes  forever  1 

Ha  !  how  is  this?    Thou'rt  ill :  thou'rt  very  pale  ; 
What  have  I  done  to  thee?    Alas  !  alas  ! 
I  meant  not  to  distress  thee — O  my  sister ! 
Jane.  I  cannot  now  speak  to  thee. 
De  Mon.  I  have  killed  thee. 
Turn,  turn  thee  not  away  !     Look  on  me  still ! 
Oh !  droop  not  thus,  my  life,  my  pride,  my  sister  ! 
Look  on  me  yet  again. 
Jane.  Thou,  too,  De  Montfort, 
(27) 


In  better  days  was  wont  to  be  my  pride. 

De  Mon.  I  am  a  wretch,  most  wretched  in  myself, 
And  .still  more  wretched  in  the  pain  I  give. 
O  curse  that  villain,  that  detested  villain  ! 
He  has  spread  misery  o'er  my  fated  life  ; 
He  will  undo  us  all. 

Jane.  I've  held  my  warfare  through  a  troubled  world. 
And  borne  with  steady  mind  my  share  of  ill ; 
For  then  the  helpmate  of  my  toil  wast  thou. 
But  now  the  wane  of  life  comes  darkly  on. 
And  hideous  passion  tears  thee  from  my  heart. 
Blasting  thy  worth.     I  cannot  strive  with  this. 

De  Mon.  What  shall  I  do  ? 

Joanna  Baillie. 


INCANTATION  SCENE  FROM  "  REMORSE." 

Scene — A  Hall  of  Armory,  with  an  altar.  S<-ft  music  from  an  in- 
strument of  glass  or  steel, 

Valdez,  Ordonio,  and  Alvar  in  a  Sorcerer's  robe,  are  discov- 
ered. 

RDONIO.  This  was  too  melancholy,  father. 
Valdez.  Nay, 

My  Alvar  loved  sad  music  from  a  child. 

Once  he  was  lost,  and  after  weary  search 
We  found  him  in  an  open  place  in  the  wood. 
To  which  spot  he  had  followed  a  blind  boy. 
Who  breathed  into  a  pipe  of  sycamore 
Some  strangely  moving  notes  ;  and  these,  he  said. 
Were  taught  him  in  a  dream.     Him  we  first  saw 
Stretched  on  the  broad  top  of  a  sunny  heath-bank : 
And  lower  down  poor  Alvar,  fast  asleep, 
His  head  upon  the  blind  boy's  dog.     It  pleased  me 
Tq.mark  how  he  had  fastened  round  the  pipe 
A  silver  toy  his  grandam  had  late  given  him. 
Methinks  I  see  him  now  as  he  then  looked — 
Even  so  I    He  had  outgrown  his  infant  dress. 
Yet  still  he  wore  it. 

Alvar.  My  tears  must  not  flow  ! 
I  must  not  clasp  his  knees,  and  cry,  My  father  ! 

[Enter  Tbresa  and  attendants.] 

Teresa.  Lord  Valdez,  you  have  asked  my  presence 
here, 
And  I  submit ;  but — Heaven  bear  witness  for  me — 
My  heart  approves  it  not !  'tis  mockery, 

Ord.  Believe  you,  then,  no  preternatural  influence  ? 
Believe  you  not  that  spirits  throng  around  us  ? 

Ter.  Say  rather  that  I  have  imagined  it 
A  possible  thing :  and  it  has  soothed  my  soul 
As  other  fancies  have  ;  but  ne'er  seduced  me 
To  traffic  with  the  black  and  frenzied  hope 
That  the  dead  hear  the  voice  of  witch  or  wizard. 
[  To  Alvar. 1  Stranger,  I  mourn  and  blush  to  see  you 

here 
On  such  employment !    With  far  other  thoughts 
I  left  you. 

Ord,  [Aside.}  Ha!   he  has  been  tampering  with 
her? 


418 


CROWN   JEWELS. 


Alv.  O  high-souled  maiden  !  and  more  dear  to  me 
Than  suits  the  stranger's  name  ! 
I  swear  to  thee 

I  will  uncover  all  concealed  guilt. 
Doubt,  but  decide  not !    Stand  ye  from  the  altar. 

[Here  a  strain  of  music  is  heard  from  behind  the  scene.  ] 

Alv.  With  no  irreverent  voice  or  uncouth  charm 
I  call  up  the  departed  ! 

Soul  of  Alvar ! 
Hear  our  soft  suit,  and  heed  my  milder  spell  : 
So  may  the  gates  of  paradise,  unbarred, 
Cease  thy  swift  toils  !     Since  happily  thou  art  one 
Of  that  innumerable  company 
Who  in  broad  circle,  lovelier  than  the  rainbow, 
Girdle  this  round  earth  in  a  dizzy  motion, 
With  noise  too  vast  and  constsnt  to  be  heard : 
Fitliest  unheard!     For  oh,  ye  numberless 
And  rapid  travelers  !  what  ear  unstunned, 
What  sense  unmaddened,  might  bear  up  against 
The  rushing  of  your  congregated  wings  ?  [Music. 

Even  now  your  living  wheel  turns  o'er  my  head  ! 

[Music  expressive  of  the  movements  and  images 
that  follow.'] 
Ye,  as  ye  pass,  toss  high  the  desert  sands. 
That  roar  and  whiten  like  a  burst  of  waters, 
A  sweet  appearance,  but  a  dread  illusion 
To  the  parched  caravan  that  roams  by  night  I 
And  ye  build  up  on  the  becalmed  waves 
That  whirling  pillar,  which  from  earth  to  heaven 
Stands  vast,  and  moves  in  blackness  !     Ye,  too,  split 
The  ice  mount !  and  with  fragments  many  and  huge 
Tempest  the  new-tliawed  sea,  whose  sudden  gulfs 
Suck  in,  perchance,  some  Lapland  wizard's  skiff! 
Then  round  and  round  the  whirlpool's  marge  ye  dance, 
Till  from  the  blue  swollen  corse  the  soul  toils  out. 
And  joins  your  mighty  army.    [Here,  behind  the  scenes, 
a  voice  sings  the  three  zvords,  '  Hear,  sweet  spirit. ' 
Soul  of  Alvar! 
Hear  the  mild  spell,  and  tempt  no  blacker  charm  ! 
By  sighs  unquiet,  and  the  sickly  pang 
Of  a  half-dead,  yet  still  undying  hope. 
Pass  visible  before  our  mortal  sense  ! 
So  shall  the  church's  cleansing  rites  be  thine, 
Her  knells  and  masses,  that  redeem  the  dead  I 

\Song  behind  the  scenes,  accompanied  by  the  same  in- 
strument as  before.] 
Hear,  sweet  spirit,  hear  the  spell. 
Lest  a  blacker  charm  compel ! 
So  shall  the  midnight  breezes  swell 
With  thy  deep  long  lingering  kntll. 
And  at  evening  evermore. 
In  a  chapel  on  the  shore, 
Shall  the  chanters,  sad  and  saintly, 
Yellow  tapers  burning  faintly, 
Doleful  masses  chant  for  thee, 
Miserere  Domine ! 


Hark  !  the  cadence  dies  away 

On  the  yellow  moonlight  sea  : 
The  boatmen  rest  their  oars  and  say, 
Miserere  Domine ! 

[A  long  pause. 
Ord.  The  innocent  obey  nor  charm  nor  spell ! 
My  brother  is  ia  heaven.     Thou  sainted  spirit. 
Burst  on  our  sight,  a  passing  visitant  ! 
Once  more  to  hear  thy  voice,  once  more  to  see  thee, 
O  'twere  a  joy  to  me  ! 

Alv.  A  joy  to  thee  ! 
What  if  thou  heardst  him  now  ?    What  if  his  spirit 
Re-entered  its  cold  corse,  and  came  upon  thee 
With  many  a  stab  from  many  a  murderer's  poniard  ? 
What  if— his  steadfast  eye  still  beaming  pity 
And  brother's  love — he  turned  his  head  aside, 
Lest  he  should  look  at  thee,  and  with  one  look 
Hurl  thee  beyond  all  power  of  penitence? 

Val.    These  are  unholy  fancies  ! 

Ord.    [Struggling   with  his  feelings.]     Yes,    my 
father,  he  is  in  heaven  ! 

Alv,     [Still  to  Ordonio.]     But  what   if  he  had  a 
brother. 
Who  had  lived  even  so,  that  at  his  dying  hour 
The  name  of  heaven  would  have  convulsed  his  face 
More  than  the  death-pang  ? 

Val.     Idly  prating  man  ! 
Thou  has  guessed  ill :  Don  Alvar's  only  brother 
Stands  here  before  thee — a  father's  blessing  on  him  ! 
He  is  most  virtuous. 

Alv.    [Still  to  Ordonio.]    What  if  his  very  virtues 
Had  pampered  his  swoolen   heart   and  made  him 

proud  ? 
And  what  if  pride  had  duped  him  into  guilt  ? 
Yet  still  he  stalked  a  self-created  god, 
Not  very  bold,  but  exquisitely  cunning  ; 
And  one  that  at  his  mother's  looking-glass 
Would  force  his  features  to  a  frowning  sternness  ? 
Young  lord  !    I  tell  thee  that  there  are  such  beings- 
Yea,  and  it  gives  fierce  merriment  to  the  damned 
To  see  these  most  proud  men,  that  loathe  makind, 
At  every  stir  and  buzz  of  coward  conscience. 
Trick,  cant-  and  lie  ;  most  whining  hypocrites  ! 
Away,  away !     Now  let  me  hear  more  music. 

[Music  again. 

Ter.  'Tis  strange.  I  tremble  at  my  own  conjectures ! 
But  whatsoe'er  it  mean,  I  dare  no  longer 
Be  present  at  these  lawless  mysteries. 
This  dark  provoking  of  the  hidden  powers  ! 
Alr'iady  I  affront — if  not  high  Heaven — 
Yet  Alvar's  memory  !  Hark  !  I  make  appeal 
Against  the  unholy  rite,  and  hasten  hence 
To  bend  before  a  lawful  shrine,  and  seek 
That  voice  which  whispers,  when  the  still  heart  listens, 
Comfort  and  faithful  hope  !     Let  us  retire, 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge. 


DRAMATIC  SELECTIONS. 


419 


SCENE  FROM  "BERTRAM." 

A  passage  of  great  poetical  beauty,  says  Sir  Walter  Scott,  in 
T\hich  Bertram  is  represented  as  spurred  to  the  commission  of  iiis 
great  crimes  by  the  direct  agency  of  a  supernatural  and  malevo- 
lent being. 

Prior— Bertram. 

PRIOR.    The  dark  knight  of  the  forest, 
So  from  his  armor  named  and  sable  helm, 
Whose  unbarred  vizor  mortal  never  saw, 
He  dwells  alone  ;  no  earthly  thing  lives  near 
him, 
Save  the  hoarse  raven  croaking  o'er  his  towers, 
And  the  dank  weeds  muffling  his  stagnant  moat, 
Bertram.    I'll  ring  a  summons  on  his  barred  por- 
tal 
Shall  make  them  through  their  dark  valves  rock  and 
ring. 
Pri.    Thou'rt  mad  to  take  the  quest.     Within  my 
memory 
One  solitary  man  did  venture  there — 
Dark  thoughts  dwelt  with  him,  which  he  sought  to 

vent. 
Unto  that  dark  compeer  we  saw  his  steps, 
In  winter's  stormy  twilight,  seek  that  pass- 
But  days  and  years  are  gone,  and  he  returns  not. 
Bert.    What  fate  befell  him  there  ? 
Pri.    The  manner  of  his  end  was  never  known. 
Bert.    That  man  shall  be  my  mate.     Contend  not 
with  me — 
Horrors  to  me  are  kindred  and  society. 
Or  man,  or  fiend,  he  hath  won  the  soul  of  Bertram. 

[Bertram  is  afterwards  discovered  alone,  wandering  near  the 
fatal  tower,  and  describes  the  eflTect  of  the  awful  Interview  which 
he  had  courted.] 

Bert.    Was  it  a  man  or  fiend  ?    Whate'er  it  was, 
It  hath  dealt  wonderfully  with  me — 
All  is  around  his  dwelling  suitable ; 
The  invisible  blast  to  which  the  dark  pines  groan. 
The  unconscious  tread  to  which  the  dark  earth  echoes, 
The  hidden  waters  rushing  to  their  fall ; 
These  sounds,  of  which  the  causes  are  not  seen, 
I  love,  for  they  are,  like  my  fate,  mysterious  ! 
How  towered  his  proud  form  through  the  shrouding 

gloom. 
How  spoke  the  eloquent  silence  of  its  motion. 
How  through  the  barred  vizor  did  his  accents 
Roll  their  rich  thunder  on  their  pausing  soul ! 
And  though  his  mailed  hand  did  shun  my  grasp. 
And  though  his  closed  morion  hid  his  feature, 
Yea,  all  resemblance  to  the  face  of  man, 
I  felt  the  hollow  whisper  of  his  welcome, 
I  felt  those  unseen  eyes  were  fixed  on  mine, 
If eyes  indeed  were  there 


Forgotten  thoughts  of  evil,  still-born  mischiefs, 
Foul,  fertile  seeds  of  passion  and  of  crime, 
That  withered  in  my  heart's  abortive  core. 
Roused  their  dark  battle  at  his  trumpet  peal  : 
So  sweeps  the  tempest  o'er  the  slumbering  desert, 
Waking  its  myraid  hosts  of  burning  death  ; 


'  So  calls  the  last  dread  peal  the  wandering  atoms 
Of  blood,  and  bone,  and  flesh,  and  dust-worn  frag- 
ments. 
In  dire  array  of  ghastly  unity. 
To  bide  the  eternal  summons — 
I  am  not  what  I  was  since  I  beheld  him— 
I  was  the  slave  of  passion's  ebbing  sway — 
All  is  condensed,  collected,  callous,  now— 
The  groan,  the  burst,  the  fiery  flash  is  o'er 
Down  pours  the  dense  and  darkening  lava-tide, 
Arresting  life,  and  stilling  all  beneath  it, 

[Enter  two  of  his  band  observing  him.] 
First  Robber.    Seest  thou  with  what  a  step  of  pride 
he  stalks? 
Thou  hast  the  dark  knight  of  the  forest  seen  ; 
For  never  man,  from  living  converse  come, 
Trod  with  such  step  or  flashed  with  eye  like  thine. 
Second  Robber.     And  hast  thou  of  a  truth  seen  the 

dark  knight  ? 
Bert.     \_TumiHg  on  him  suddenly  "l    Thy  hand  is 
chilled  with  fear.     Well,  shivering  craven. 
Say  I  have  seen  him— wherefore  dost  thou  gaze? 
Long'st  thou  for  tale  of  goblin-guarded  portal  ? 
Of  giant  champion,  whose  spell-forged  mail 
Crumbled  to  dust  an  sound  of  magic  horn — 
Banner  of  sheeted  flame,  whose  foldings  shrunk 
To  withering  weeds,  that  o'er  the  battlements 
Wave  to  the  broken  spell— or  demon-blast 
Of  winded  clarion,  whose  fell  summons  sinks 
To  lonely  whisper  of  the  shuddering  breeze 

O'er  the  charmed  towers 

First  Robber.     Mock  me  not  thus.     Hast  met  him 
of  a  truth? 

Bert.     Well,  fool 

First  Robber.    Why,  then,  Heaven's  benison  be 
with  you. 
Upon  this  hour  we  part— farewell  forever. 
For  mortal  cause  I  bear  a  mortal  weapon — 
But  man  that  leagues  with  demons  lacks  not  man. 
Charles  Robert  Maturin. 

SCENE  FROM  " VIRGINIUS." 


Appius,  Claudius,  and  Lictors. 
/l^PPIUS.    Well,  Claudius,  are  the  forces 
I  ^     At  hand  ? 
V^         Claudius.  They  are,  and  timely,  too ;  the 

people 
Are  in  unwonted  ferment. 

App.  There's  something  awes  me  at 
The  thought  of  looking  on  her  father ! 

Claud.  Look 
Upon  her,  my  Appius !    Fix  your  gaze  upon 
The  treasures  of  her  beauty,  nor  avert  it 
Till  they  are  thine.     Haste !    Your  tribunal ! 
H^s^^  •  \_Appius  ascends  the  tribunal. 

[Enter  Numitorius,  Icilius,  Lucius,  Citizens,  Vircinius  lead- 
ing  his  daughter,  Servia,  and  Citizens.  A  dead  silence  pre- 
vails.] 


420 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


Virginius.  Does  no'  one  speak  ?    I  am  defendant 
here. 
Is  silence  my  opponent?    Fit  opponent 
To  plead  a  cause  too  foul  for  speech  !    What  brow 
Shameless  gives  front  to  this  most  valiant  cause, 
That  tries  its  prowess  'gainst  the  honor  of 
A  girl,  yet  lacks  the  wit  to  know,  that  he 
Who  casts  off  shame,  should  likewise  cast  off  fear — 
And  on  the  verge  o'  the  combat  wants  the  nerve 
To  stammer  forth  the  signal  ? 

App.  You  had  better, 
Virginius,  wear  another  kind  of  carriage  ; 
This  is  not  of  the  fashion  that  will  serve  you. 

Vir.  The  fashion,  Appius !    Appius  Claudiufe  tell  me 
The  fashion  it  becomes  a  man  to  speak  in. 
Whose  property  in  his  own  child — the  offspring 
Of  his  own  body,  near  to  him  as  is 
His  hand,  his  arm — yea,  nearer — closer  far. 
Knit  to  his  heart— I  say,  who  has  his  property 
In  such  a  thing,  the  very  self  of  himself, 
Disputed — and  I'll  speak  so,  Appius  Claudius  ; 
I'll  speak  so — Pray  you  tutor  me  ! 

App.  Stand  forth 
Claudius  !     If  you  lay  claim  to  any  interest 
In  the  question  now  before  us,  speak  ;  if  not, 
Bring  on  some  other  cause. 

Claud.  Most  noble  Appius 

Vir.  And  are  you  the  man 
That  claims  my  daughter  for  his  slave  ? — Look  at  me 
And  I  will  give  her  to  thee. 

Claud.  She  is  mine,  then  : 
Do  I  not  look  at  you  ? 

Vir.  Your  eye  does,  truly, 
But  not  your  soul.     I  see  it  through  your  eye 
Shifting  and  shrinking — turning  every  way 
To  shun  me.     You  surprise  me,  that  your  eye, 
So  long  the  bully  of  its  master,  knows  not 
To  put  a  proper  face  upon  a  lie,  > 

But  gives  the  port  of  impudence  to  falsehood 
When  it  would  pass  it  off  for  truth.    Your  soul 
Dares  as  soon  shew  its  face  to  me.     Go  on, 
I  had  forgot ;  the  fashion  of  my  speech 
May  not  please  Appius  Claudius. 

Claud.  I  demand 
Protection  of  the  Decemvir ! 

App.  You  shall  have  it. 

Vir.  Doubtless ! 

App.  Keep  back  the  people,  Lictors  !    What's 
Your  plea  ?    You  say  the  girl's  your  slave.  Produce 
'Vour  proofs. 

Claud.  My  proof  is  here,  which,  if  they  can. 

Let  them  confront.     The  mother  of  the  girl 

[  Virginius,  stepping   forward,  is  with- 
held by  Numitorius. 

Numitorius.  Hold,  brother  !    Hear  them  out,  or  suf- 
fer me 
To  speak. 

Vir.  Man,  I  must  speak,  or  else  go  mad  ! 
And  if  I  do  go  mad,  what  then  will  hold  me 


From  speaking?    She  was  thy  sister,  too \ 

Well,  well,  speak  thou.     I'll  try,  and  if  I  can, 

Be  silent.  [^Retires. 

Num.  Will  she  swear  she  is  her  child  ? 

Vir.  {^Starting  forward. '\  To  be  sure  she  will — a 
most  wise  question  that ! 
Is  she  not  his  slave  ?    Will  his  tongue  lie  for  him — 
Or  his  hand  steal — or  the  finger  of  his  hand 
Beckon,  or  point,  or  shut,  or  open  for  him  ? 
To  ask  him  if  she'll  swear  !    Will  she  walk  or  run. 
Sing,  dance,  or  wag  her  head  ;  do  anything 
That  is  most  easy  done  ?    She'll  as  soon  swear ! 
What  mockery  it  is  to  have  one's  life 
In  jeopardy  by  such  a  berefaced  trick  ! 
Is  it  to  be  endured  ?    I  do  protest 
Against  her  oath ! 

App.  No  law  in  Rome,  Virginius, 
Seconds  you.     If  she  swear  the  girl's  her  child, 
The  evidence  is  good,  unless  confronted 
By  better  evidence.     Look  you  to  that, 
Virginius.     I  shall  take  the  woman's  oath. 

Virginia.  Icilius  ! 

Icilius.  Fear  not,  love ;  a  thousand  oaths 
Will  answer  her. 

App.  You  swear  the  girl's  your  child, 
And  that  you  sold  her  to  Virginius'  wife, 
Who  passed  her  for  her  own.    Is  that  your  oath? 

Slave.  It  is  my  oath. 

App.  Your  answer  now,  Virginius. 

Vir.  Here  it  is !  \_Brings  Virginia  forward. 

Is  this  the  daughter  of  a  slave  ?  I  know 
'Tis  not  with  men  as  shrubs  and  trees,  that  by 
The  shoot  you  know  the  rank  and  order  of 
The  stem.    Yet  who  from  such  a  stem  would  look 
For  such  a  shoot.     My  witnesses  are  these — 
The  relatives  and  friends  of  Numitoria, 
Who  saw  her,  ere  Virginia's  birth,  sustain 
The  burden  which  a  mother  bears,  nor  feels 
The  weight,  with  longing  for  the  sight  of  it. 
Here  are  the  ears  that  listened  to  her  sighs 
In  nature's  hour  of  labor,  which  subsides 
In  the  embrace  of  joy — the  hands,  that  when 
The  day  first  looked  upon  the  infant's  face. 
And  never  looked  so  pleased,  helped  them  up  to  it, 
And  blessed  her  for  a  blessing.     Here,  the  eyes 
That  saw  her  lying  at  the  generous 
And  sympathetic  fount,  that  at  her  cry 
Sent  forth  a  stream  of  liquid  living  pearl 
To  cherish  her  enamelled  veins.    The  lie 
Is  most  unfruitful  then,  that  takes  the  flower^- 
The  very  flower  our  bed  connubial  grew — 
To  prove  its  barrenness !    Speak  for  me  friends  ; 
Have  I  not  spoke  the  truth  ? 

Women  and  Citizens.  You  have,  Virginius. 

App.  Silence !    Keep  silence  there  !     No  more  of 
that ! 
You're  very  ready  for  a  tumult,  citizens. 

[  Troops  appear  behind. 
Lictors,  make  way  to  let  these  troops  advance ! 


DRAMATIC   SELECTIONS. 


421 


We  have  had  a  taste  of  your  forbearance,  masters, 
And  wish  not  for  another. 

Vir.  Troops  in  the  P  orum  ! 

Ap/>.  Virginius,  have  you  spoken  ? 

Vir.  If  you  have  heard  me, 
I  have  ;  if  not,  I'll  speaic  again. 

App.  You  need  not, 
Virginius ;  I  had  evidence  to  give, 
Which,  should  you  speak  a  licincJred  times  again, 
Would  make  your  pleading  vain. 

Fir.  Your  hand,  Virginia  ! 
Stand  close  to  me.  [Aside. 

App.  My  conscience  will  not  let  me 
Be  silent.     'Tis  notorious  to  you  all. 
That  Claudius'  father,  at  his  death,  declared  me 
The  guardian  of  his  son.    This  cheat  has  long 
Been  known  to  me.     I  know  the  girl  is  not 
Virginius'  daughter. 

Vir.  Join  your  friends,  Icilius, 
And  leave  Virginia  to  my  care.  {_Aside 

App.  The  justice 
I  should  have  done  my  client  unrequired, 
Now  cited  by  him,  how  shall  I  refuse? 

Vir.  Don't  tremble,  girl !  don't  tremble.      lAsidg. 

App.  Virginius, 
I  feel  for  you  ;  but  though  you  were  my  father, 
The  majesty  of  justice  should  be  sacred — 
Claudius  must  take  Virginia  home  with  him  ! 

Vir.  And  if  he  must,  I  should  advise  him,  Appius, 
To  take  her  home  in  time,  before  his  guardian 
Complete  the  violation  which  his  eyes 
Already  have  begun. — Friends  !  fellow-citizens  ! 
Look  not  on  Claudius — look  on  your  Decemvir ! 
He  is  the  master  claims  Virginia  ! 
The  tongues  that  told  him  she  was  not  my  child 
Are  these — the  costly  charms  he  cannot  purchase. 
Except  by  making  her  the  slave  of  Claudius, 
His  client,  his  purveyor,  that  caters  for 
His  pleasure — markets  for  him — picks,  and  scents, 
And  tastes,  that  he  may  banquet — serves  him  up 
His  sensual  feast,  and  is  not  now  ashamed, 
In  the  open,  common  street,  before  your  eyes — 
Frighting  your  daughters'  and  your  matrons'  cheeks 
With  blushes  they  ne'er  thought  to  meet — to  help  him 
To  the  honor  of  a  Roman  maid  !  my  child  ! 
Who  now  clings  to  me,  as  you  see,  as  if 
This  second  Tarquin  had  already  coiled 
His  arms  around  her.     Look  upon  her,  Romans  ! 
Befriend  her !  succor  her  !  see  her  not  polluted 
Before  her  father's  eyes  ! — He  is  but  one. 
Tear  her  from  Appius  and  his  Lictors  while 
She  is  unstained. — Your  hands !  your  hands !  your 
hands ! 

Citizens.  They  are  yours,  Virginius. 

App.  Keep  the  people  back — 
Support  my  Lictors,  soldiers  !    Seize  the  girl, 
And  drive  the  people  back. 

Icilius.  Down  with  the  slaves  ! 


[The  people  make  a  show  of  resistance;  but,  upon  the  advance 
of  the  soldiers,  retreat,  and  leave  Icilius,  Virginius,  and  his 
daughter,  etc.,  in  the  hands  of  Appius  and  his  party]. 

Deserted  ! — Cowards  !  traitors  !    Let  me  free 

But  for  a  moment !     I  relied  on  you  ; 

Had  I  relied  upon  myself  alone, 

I  had  kept  them  still  at  bay  !     I  kneel  to  you — 

Let  me  but  loose  a  moment,  if  'tis  only 

To  rush  upon  your  swords. 

Vir.  Icilius,  peace  ! 
You  see  how  'tis,  we  are  deserted,  left 
Alone  by  our  friends,  surrounded  by  our  enemies, 
Nerveless  and  helpless. 
App.  Separate  them,  Lictors  ! 

Vir.  Let  them  forbear  awhile,  I  pray  you,  Appius  : 
It  is  not  very  easy.     Though  her  arms 
Are  tender,  yet  the  hold  is  strong  by  which 
She  grasps  me,  Appius — forcing  them  will  hurt  them  ; 
They'll  soon  unclasp  themselves.    Wait  but  a  little — 
You  know  you're  sure  of  her  ! 

A/>P-  I  have  not  time 
To  idle  with  thee ;  give  her  to  my  Lictors. 

Vir.  Appius,  I  pray  you  wait !    If  she  is  not 
My  child,  she  hath  been  like  a  child  to  me 
For  fifteen  years.     If  I  am  not  her  father, 
I  have  been  like  a  father  to  her,  Appius, 
For  even  such  a  time.    They  that  have  lived 
So  long  a  time  together,  in  so  near 
And  dear  society,  may  be  allowed 
A  little  time  for  parting.     Let  me  take 
The  maid  aside,  I  pray  you,  and  confer 
A  moment  with  her  nurse ;  perhaps  she'll  give  me 
Some  token  will  unloose  a  tie  so  twined 
And  knotted  round  my  heart,  that,  if  you  break  it, 
My  heart  breaks  with  it. 

App.  Have  your  wish.    Be  brief! 
Lictors,  look  to  them ! 

Virginia.  Do  you  go  from  me  ? 
Do  you  leave  ?    Father  !  Father ! 

Vir.  No,  my  child — 
No,  my  Virginia — come  along  with  me. 

Virginia.  Will  you  not  leave  me  ?  Will  you  take  me 
with  you  ? 
Will  you  take  me  home  again  ?  O,  bless  you  !  bless  you ! 
My  father  !  my  dear  father !     Art  thou  not 
My  father  ? 

[Virginius,  perfectly  at  a  loss  what  to  do,  looks  anxiously 
around  the  Forum  ;  at  length  his  eye  falls  on  a  butcher's  stall,  with 
a  knife  upon  it.] 

Vir.  This  way,  my  child — No,  no  ;  I  am  not  going 
To  leave  thee,  my  Virginia  1  I'll  not  leave  thee. 

App.  Keep  back  the  people,  soldiers !  Let  them  not 
Approach  Virginius  !     Keep  the  people  back  ! 

[  Virginius  secures  the  knife. 
Well,  have  you  done? 

Vir.  Short  time  for  converse,  Appius, 
But  I  have. 

App.  I  hope  you  are  satisfied. 

Vir.  I  am — 
I  am — that  she  is  my  daughter  \ 


422 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


App.  Take  her,  Lictors ! 

\_Virginia  shrieks,  and  falls  Jialf -dead  upon 
her  father' s  shoulder. 
Vir.  Another  moment,  pray  you.    Bear  with  me 
A  little — 'Tis  my  last  embrace.    'Twon't  try 
Your  patience  beyond  bearing,  if  you're  a  man! 
Lengthen  it  as  I  may,  I  cannot  make  it 
Long.    My  dear  child  !  My  dear  Virginia ! 

{^Kissing  her. 
There  is  one  only  way  to  save  thine  honor — 
^Tisthis. 

\_Stab5  her,  and  draws  out  the  knife.      Icilius 
breaks  frotn  the  soldiers  that  held  hint, 
and  catches  her. 
Lo,  Appius,  with  this  innocent  blood 
I  do  devote  thee  to  the  infernal  gods  ! 
Make  way  there ! 
App.  Stop  him  !  Seize  him  ! 
Vir.  If  they  dare 
To  tempt  the  desperate  weapon  that  is  maddened 
With  drinking  my  daughter's  blood,  why,  let  them :  thus 
It  rushes  in  amongst  them.     Way  there  !  Way  I 

\^Exit  through  the  soldiers. 
James  Sheridan  Knowles. 


FROM  ■'THE  WIFE,  A  TALE  OF  MANTUA." 

Lorenzo,  an  Advocate  of  Rome,  and  Mariana. 
•T^  ORENZO.  That's  right — you  are  collected  and 
*%•  r  direct 

■i*^     In  your  replies.     I  dare  be  sworn  your  passion 
Was  such  a  thing,  as,  by  its  neighborhood. 
Made  piety  and  virtue  twice  as  rich 
As  e'er  ihey  were  before.     How  grew  it?    Come, 
Thou  know'st  thy  heart — look  calmly  into  it, 
And  see  how  innocent  a  thing  it  is 
Which  thou  dost  fear  to  shew — I  wait  your  answer. 
How  grew  your  passion  ? 

Mariana.  As  my  stature  grew. 
Which  rose  without  my  noting  it,  until 
They  said  I  was  a  woman.     I  kept  watch 
Beside  what  seemed  his  death-bed.     From  beneath  , 
An  avalanche  my  father  rescued  him, 
Sole  survivor  of  a  company 

Who  wandered  through  our  mountains.    A  long  time 
His  life  was  doubtful,  signor,  and  he  called 
For  help,  whence  help  alone  could  come,  which  I, 
Morning  and  night,  invoked  along  with  him ; 
So  first  our  souls  did  mingle  ! 
Lor.  I  perceive :  you  mingled  souls  until  you  mingled 
hearts  ? 
You  loved  at  last.     Was't  not  the  sequel,  maid  ? 

Mar.  I  loved,  indeed  !     If  I  but  nursed  a  flower 
Which  to  the  ground  the  wind  and  rain  had  beaten. 
That  flower  of  all  our  garden  was  my  pride  : 
What  then  was  he  to  me,  for  whom  I  thought 
To  make  a  shroud,  when,  tending  on  him  still 
jVVith  hope,  that,  baffled  still,  did  still  keep  up  ; 


I  saw,  at  last,  the  ruddy  dawn  of  health 
Begin  to  mantle  o'er  his  pallid  form, 
And  glow — and  glow — till  forth  at  last  it  burst 
Into  confirmed,  broad,  and  glorious  day ! 

Lor.  You  loved,  and  he  did  love  ? 

Mar.  To  say  he  did. 
Were  to  affirm  what  oft  his  eyes  avouched, 
What  many  an  action  testified — and  yet — 
^Vhat  wanted  confirmation  of  his  tongue. 
But  if  he  loved,  it  brought  him  not  content ! 
'Twas  now  abstraction — now  a  start — anon 
A  pacing  to  and  fro — anon  a  stillness. 
As  nought  remained  of  life,  save  life  itself, 
And  feeling,  thought,  and  motion,  were  extinct. 
Then  all  again  was  action !    Disinclined 
To  converse,  save  he  held  it  with  himself; 
Which  oft  he  did,  in  moody  vein  discoursing^, 
And  ever  and  anon  invoking  honor. 
As  some  high  contest  there  were  pending  'twixt 
Himself  and  him,  wherein  her  aid  he  needed. 

Lor.  This  spoke  impediment ;  or  he  was  bound 
By  promise  to  another ;  or  had  friends 
Whom  it  behooved  him  to  consult,  and  doubted  ; 
Or  'twixt  you  lay  disparity  too  wide 
For  love  itself  to  leap. 

Mar.  I  saw  a  struggle. 
But  knew  not  what  it  was.     I  wondered  still, 
That  what  to  me  was  all  content,  to  him 
Was  all  disturbance ;  but  my  turn  did  come. 
At  length  he  talked  of  leaving  us  ;  at  length 
He  fixed  the  parting-day — but  kept  it  not — 

0  how  my  heart  did  bound  !    Then  first  I  knew 
It  had  been  sinking.     Deeper  still  it  sank 
When  next  he  fixed  to  go ;  and  sank  it  then 
To  bound  no  more  !    He  went. 

Lor.  To  follow  him 
You  came  to  Mantua  ? 

Mar.  What  could  I  do  ? 
Cot,  garden,  vineyard,  rivulet,  and  wood. 
Lake,  sky,  and  mountain,  went  along  with  him ! 
Could  I  remain  behind  ?    My  father  found 
My  heart  was  not  at  home ;  he  loved  his  child. 
And  asked  me,  one  day,  whither  we  should  go  ? 

1  said :  '  To  Mantua.'    I  followed  him 

To  IMantua !  to  breathe  the  air  he  breathed. 

To  walk  upon  the  ground  he  walked  upon. 

To  look  upon  the  things  he  looked  upon. 

To  look,  perchance,  on  him !  perchance  to  hear  him, 

To  touch  him  !  never  to  be  known  to  him. 

Till  he  was  told  I  lived  and  died  his  love. 

James  Sheridan  Knowles. 


HUSBAND  AND  BRIDE. 

ESPERUS.  See,  here's  a  bower 
Of  eglantine  with  honeysuckles  woven, 
Where  not  a  spark  of  prying  light  creeps  in, 
So  closely  do  the  sweets  enfold  each  other. 
'Tis  twilight's  home  ;  come  in,  my  gentle  love, 


DRAMATIC   SELECTIONS. 


423 


And  talk  to  me.    So  !  I've  a  rival  here  ; 
What's  this  that  sleeps  so  sweetly  on  your  neck  ! 

Floribel.  Jealous  so  soon,   my  Hesperus?    Look 
then. 
It  is  a  bunch  of  flowers  I  pulled  for  you  : 
Here  s  the  blue*  violet,  like  Pandora's  eye. 
When  first  it  darkened  with  immortal  life. 

Hesp.  Sweet  as  thy  lips.  Fie  on  those  taper  fingers, 
Have  they  been  brushing  the  long  grass  aside, 
To  drag  the  daisy  from  its  hiding  place, 
I  Where  it  shuns  light,  the  Danaii  of  flowers. 
With  gold  up-hoarded  on  its  virgin  lap  ? 

Flor.  And  here's  a  treasure  that  I  found  by  chance, 
A  lily-of-the-valley ;  low  it  lay 
Over  a  mossy  mound,  withered  and  weeping, 
As  on  a  fairy's  grave. 

Hcsp.  Of  all  the  posy 
Give  me  the  rose,  though  there's  a  tale  of  blood 
Soiling  its  name.    In  elfin  annals  old 
'Tis  writ,  how  Zephyr,  envious  of  his  love — 
The  love  he  bare  to  Summer,  who  since  then 
Has,  weeping,  visited  the  world — once  found 
The  baby  perfume  cradled  in  a  violet ; 
CTwas  said  the  beauteous  bantling  was  the  child 
Of  a  gay  bee,  that  in  his  wantonness 
Toyed  with  a  pea-bud  in  a  lady's  garland); 
The  felon  winds,  confederate  with  him, 
Bound  the  sweet  slumberer  with  golden  chains, 
Pulled  from  the  wreathed  laburnum,  and  together 
Deep  cast  him  in  the  bosom  of  a  rose, 
And  fed  the  fettered  wretch  with  dew  and  air. 

Thomas  Beddoes. 


PICKING  TO  PIECES  THE  CHARACTERS  OF 
OTHER  PEOPLE. 
\_Froin  the  ^*  School  for  Scandaiy\ 
Maria  enters  to  Lady  Sneerwell  and  Joseph  Surface. 
^ADV  SNEER  WELL.    Maria,  my  dear,  how 
do  you  do  ?    What's  the  matter  ? 
Maria.    Oh !  there  is  that  disagreeable  lover 
of  mine.  Sir  Benjamin  Backbite,  has  just 
called  at  my  guardian's  with  his  odious  uncle.  Crab- 
tree  ;  so  I  slipt  out,  and  ran  hither  to  avoid  them. 
Lady  S.     Is  that  all  ? 

Joseph  Surface.  If  my  brother  Charles  had  been  of 
the  party,  madam,  perhaps  you  would  not  have  been 
so  much  alarmed. 

Lady  S.  Nay,  now  you  are  severe  ;  for  I  dare  swear 
the  truth  of  the  matter  is,  Maria  heard  you  were  here. 
But,  my  dear,  what  has  Sir  Benjamin  done  that  you 
should  avoid  him  so  ? 

Maria.  Oh,  he  has  done  nothing — but  'tis  for  what 
he  has  said  :  his  conversation  is  a  perpetual  libel  on  all 
his  acquaintance. 

Joseph  S.  Ay,  and  the  worst  of  it  is,  there  is  no 
advantage  in  not  knowing  him — for  he'll  abuse  a 
stranger  just  as  soon  as  his  best  friend  ;  and  his  uncle 
Crabtree's  as  bad. 


Lady  S.  Nay,  but  we  should  make  allowance.  Sir 
Benjamin  is  a  wit  and  a  poet. 

Maria.  For  my  part,  I  own,  madam,  wit  loses  its 
respect  with  me  when  I  see  it  in  company  with  malice. 
What  do  you  think,  Mr.  Surface  ? 

Joseph  S.  Certainly,  madam  ;  to  smile  at  the  jest 
which  plants  a  thorn  in  another's  breast  is  to  become  a 
principal  in  the  mischief. 

Lady  S.  Pshaw! — there's  no  possibility  of  being 
wilty  without  a  little  ill-nature ;  the  malice  of  a  good 
thing  is  the  barb  that  makes  it  stick.  What's  your 
opinion,  Mr.  Surface? 

Joseph  S.  To  be  sure,  madam ;  that  conversation 
where  the  spirit  of  raillery  is  suppressed,  will  ever 
appear  tedious  and  insipid. 

Maria.  Well,  I'll  not  debate  how  far  scandal  may 
be  allowable ;  but  in  a  man,  I  am  sure,  it  is  always 
contemptible.  We  have  pride,  envy,  rivalship,  and  a 
thousand  little  motives  to  depreciate  each  other;  but 
the  male  slanderer  must  have  the  cowardice  of  a  woman 
before  he  can  traduce  one. 

[Enter  Servant.] 

Servant.  Madam,  Mrs.  Candour  is  below,  and  if 
your  ladyship's  at  leisure,  will  leave  her  carriage. 

Lady  S.  Beg  her  to  walk  in.  \^Exit  Servant. '\ 
Now,  Maria,  however,  here  is  a  character  to  your 
taste ;  for  though  Mrs.  Candour  is  a  little  talkative, 
everybody  allows  her  to  be  the  best  natured  and  best 
sort  of  woman. 

Maria.  Yes — with  a  very  gross  affectation  of  good 
nature  and  benevolence,  she  does  more  mischief  than 
the  direct  malice  of  old  Crabtree. 

Joseph  S.  r  faith,  that's  true.  Lady  Sneerwell ; 
whenever  I  hear  the  current  running  against  the 
characters  of  my  friends,  I  never  think  them  in 
such  danger  as  when  Candour  undertakes  their  de- 
fence. 

Lady  S.     Hush  ! — here  she  is  ! 

[Enter  Mrs.  Candour.]  ' 

Mrs.  Candour.  My  dear  Lady  Sneerwell,  how 
have  you  been  this  century?  Mr.  Surface,  what 
news  do  you  hear? — though  indeed  it  is  no  matter, 
for  I  think  one  hears  nothing  else  but  scandal. 

Joseph  S.    Just  so,  indeed,  ma'am. 

Mrs.  C.  Oh,  Maria  !  child — what !  is  the  whole  af- 
fair off"  between  you  and  Charles  ?  His  extravagance, 
I  presume — the  town  talks  of  nothing  else. 

Maria.  I  am  very  sorry,  ma'am,  the  town  has  so 
little  to  do. 

Mrs.  C.  True,  true,  child :  but  there's  no  stop- 
ping people's  tongues.  I  own  I  was  hurt  to  hear  it, 
as  I  indeed  was  to  learn,  from  the  same  quarter, 
that  your  guardian,  Sir  Peter  and  Lady  Teazle, 
have  not  agreed  lately  as  well  as  could  be  wished. 

Maria.  'Tis  strangely  impertinent  for  people  to 
busy  themselves  so. 

Mrs.  C.  Very  true,  child  :  but  what's  to  be  done  ? 
People  will  talk — there's  no  preventing  it.    Why.  it 


424 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


was  but  yesterday  I  was  told  that  Miss  Gadabout  had 
eloped  with  Sir  Filligree  Flirt.  But  there's  no  mind- 
ing what  one  hears  ;  though,  to  be  sure,  I  had  this 
from  very  good  authority. 

Maria.     Such  reports  are  highly  scandalous. 

Mrs.  C.  So  they  are  child — shameful,  shameful ! 
But  the  world  is  so  censorious,  no  character  escapes. 
Well,  now,  who  would  have  suspected  your  friend. 
Miss  Prim,  of  an  indiscretion?  Yet  such  is  the  ill- 
nature  of  people  that  they  say  her  uncle  stopped  her 
last  week,  just  as  she  was  stepping  into  the  York  mail 
with  her  dancing  master. 

Maria.  I'll  answer  for 't,  there  are  no  grounds  for 
that  report. 

Mrs.  C.  Ah,  no  foundation  in  the  world,  I  dare 
swear ;  no  more,  probably  than  for  the  story  circu- 
lated last  month  of  Mrs.  Festino's  affair  with  Colonel 
Cassino ;  though,  to  be  sure,  that  matter  was  never 
rightly  cleared  up. 

Joseph  S.  The  license  of  invention  some  people 
take  is  monstrous  indeed. 

Maria.  'Tis  so — but,  in  my  opinion,  those  who  re- 
port such  things  are  equally  culpable. 

Mrs.  C.  To  be  sure  they  are  ;  tale-bearers  are  as 
bad  as  the  tale-makers — 'tis  an  old  observation,  and  a 
very  true  one :  but  what's  to  be  done,  as  I  said  before? 
how  will  you  prevent  people  from  talking  ?  To-day, 
Mrs.  Clackitt  assured  me  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Honeymoon 
were  at  last  become  mere  man  and  wife,  like  the  rest 
of  their  acquaintance.  *  *  No,  no  1  tale-bearers,  as 
I  said  before,  are  just  as  bad  as  the  tale-makers. 

Joseph  S.  Ah !  Mrs.  Candour,  if  everybody  had  your 
forbearance  and  good-nature ! 

Mrs.  C.  I  confess,  Mr.  Surface,  I  cannot  bear  to 
hear  people  attacked  behind  their  backs  ;  and  when 
ugly  circumstances  come  out  against  our  acquaintance, 
I  own  I  always  love  to  think  the  best.  By  the  by,  I 
hope  'tis  not  true  that  your  brother  is  absolutely 
ruined? 

Joseph  S.  I  am  afraid  his  circumstances  are  very  bad 
indeed,  ma'am. 

Mrs.  C  Ah !  I  heard  so — but  you  must  tell  him  to 
keep  up  his  spirits ;  everybody  almost  is  in  the  same 
way — Lord  Spindle,  Sir  Thomas  Splint,  and  Mr.  Nickit 
— all  up,  I  hear,  within  this  week  ;  so,  if  Charles  is  un- 
done, he'll  find  half  his  acquaintance  ruined  too ;  and 
that,  you  know,  is  a  consolation. 

Joseph  S.  Doubtless,  ma'am — a  very  great  one. 
[Enter  Servant.] 

Serv.  Mr.  Crabtree  and  Sir  Benjamin  Backbite. 

[Exit  Servant 
Lady  S.  So,  Maria,  you  see  your  lover  pursues  you ; 
positively  you  shan't  escape. 

[Enter  Crabtree  and  Sir  Benjamin  Backbite.j 
Crabtree.  Lady  Sneerwell,  I  kiss  your  hand.     Mrs. 
Candour,  I  don't  believe  you  are  acquainted  with  my 
nephew.  Sir  Benjamin  Backbite  ?    Egad !  ma'am,  he 


has  a  pretty  wit,  and  is  a  pretty  poet,  too ;  isn't  he, 
Lady  Sneerwell  ? 

Sir  Benjamin.  O  fie,  uncle  ! 

Crab.  Nay,  egad,  it's  true  ;  I  back  him  at  a  rebus  or 
a  charade  against  the  best  rhymer  in  the  kingdom. 
Has  your  ladyship  heard  the  epigram  he  wrote  last 
week  on  Lady  Frizzle's  feather  catching  fire  ?  Do,  Ben- 
jamin, repeat  it,  or  the  charade  you  made  last  night  ex- 
tempore at  Mrs.  Drowzie's  conversazione.  Come  now  ; 
your  first  is  the  name  of  a  fish,  your  second,  a  great 
naval  commander,  and 

Sir  B.   Uncle,  now — prithee 

Crab.  V  faith,  ma'am,  'twould  surprise  you  to  hear 
how  ready  he  is  at  these  things. 

Lady  S.  I  wonder,  Sir  Benjamin  you  never  publish 
anything. 

Sir  B.  To  say  truth,  ma'm,  'tis  very  vulgar  to  print ; 
and  as  my  little  productions  are  mostly  satires  and  lam- 
poons on  particular  people,  I  find  they  circulate  more 
by  giving  copies  in  confidence  to  the  friends  of  the  par- 
ties. However,  I  have  some  love  elegies,  which,  when 
favored  with  this  lady's  smiles,  I  mean  to  give  the 
public. 

Crab.  'Fore  heaven,  ma'am,  they'll  immortalize 
you  !  You  will  be  handed  down  to  posterity,  like  Pe- 
trarch's Laura,  or  Waller's  Sacharissa. 

Sir  B.  Yes,  madam,  I  think  you  will  like  them, 
when  you  shall  see  them  on  a  beautiful  quarto  page, 
where  a  neat  rivulet  of  text  shall  murmur  through  a 
meadow  of  margin.  'Fore  gad,  they  will  be  the  most 
elegant  things  of  their  kind  1 

Crab.  But,  ladies,  that's  true — have  you  heard  the 
news? 

Mrs.  C.  What,  sir,  do  you  mean  the  report  of 

Crab.  No,  ma'm,  that's  not  it — Miss  Nicely  is  going 
to  be  married  to  her  own  footman. 

Mrs.  C.  Impossible ! 

Crab.  Ask  Sir  Benjamin. 

Sir  B.  'Tis  very  true,  ma'am  ;  everything  is  fixed, 
and  the  wedding  liveries  bespoke. 

Crab.  Yes  ;  and  they  do  say  there  were  very  press- 
ing reasons  for  it. 

Lady  S.  Why,  I  have  heard  something  of  this  be- 
fore. 

Mrs.  C.  It  can't  be  ;  and  I  wonder  any  one  should 
believe  such  a  story  of  so  prudent  a  lady  as  Miss 
Nicely. 

Sir  B.  O  lud !  ma'am,  that's  the  very  reason  'twas 
believed  at  once.  She  has  always  been  so  cautious, 
and  so  reserved,  that  everybody  was  sure  there  was 
some  reason  for  it  at  bottom. 

Mrs.  C.  Why,  to  be  sure,  a  tale  of  scandal  is  as  fatal 
to  the  credit  of  a  prudent  lady  of  her  stamp  as  a  fever 
is  generally  to  those  of  the  strongest  constitutions.  But 
there  is  a  sort  of  puny  sickly  reputation  that  is  always 
ailing,  yet  will  outlive  the  robuster  characters  of  a  hun- 
dred prudes. 

Sir  B.  True,  madam,  there  are  valetudinarians  in 
reputation  as  well  as  constitution ;   who,  being  con- 


DRAMATIC   SELECTIONS. 


425 


scious  of  their  weak  part,  avoid  the  least  breath  of  air, 
and  supply  their  want  of  stamina  by  care  and  circum- 
spection. 

Mrs.  C.  Well,  but  this  may  be  all  a  mistake.  You 
know,  Sir  Benjamin,  very  trifling  circumstances  often 
give  rise  to  the  most  injurious  tales. 

Crab.  That  they  do,  I'll  be  sworn,  ma'am.  O  lud  ! 
Mr.  Surface,  pray,  is  it  true  that  your  uncle,  Sir  Oliver, 
is  coming  home  ? 

Joseph  S.     Not  that  I  know  of,  indeed,  sir. 
Crab.     He  has  been  in  the  East  Indies  a  long  time. 
You  can  scarcely  remember  him,  I  believe  ?    Sad  com- 
fort whenever  he  returns,  to  hear  how  your  brother  has 
gone  on. 

Joseph  S.  Charles  has  been  imprudent,  sir,  to  be 
sure ;  but  I  hope  no  busy  people  have  already  preju- 
diced Sir  Oliver  against  him.     He  may  reform. 

Sir  B.  To  be  sure  he  may  ;  for  my  part,  I  never  be- 
lieved him  to  be  so  utterly  void  of  principle  as  people 
say ;  and  though  he  has  lost  all  his  friends,  I  am  told 
nobody  is  better  spoken  of  by  the  Jews. 

Crab.  That's  true,  egad,  nephew.  If  the  Old  Jewry 
was  a  ward,  I  believe  Charles  would  be  an  alderman  : 
no  man  more  popular  there  !  I  hear  he  pays  as  many 
annuities  as  the  Irish  tontine ;  and  that,  whenever  he 
is  sick,  they  have  prayers  for  the  recovery  of  his  health 
in  all  the  S3'nagogues. 

Sir  B.  Yet  no  man  lives  in  greater  splendor.  They 
tell  me,  when  he  entertains  his  friends,  he  will  sit  down 
to  dinner  with  a  dozen  of  his  own  securities  ;  have  a 
score  of  tradesmen  waiting  in  the  antechamber,  and  an 
officer  behind  every  guest's  chair. 

Joseph  S.  This  may  be  entertainment  to  you,  gen- 
tlemen ;  but  you  pay  very  little  regard  to  the  feelings 
of  a  brother. 

Maria.  Their  malice  is  intolerable.  Lady  Sneer- 
well,  I  must  wish  you  a  good-morning  :  I'm  not  very 
well. 

\_Exii  Maria. 

Mrs  C.    O  dear !  she  changes  color  very  much. 

Lady  S.  Do,  Mrs.  Candour,  follow  her:  she  may 
want  your  assistance. 

Mrs.  C.  That  I  will,  with  all  my  soul,  ma'am.  Poor, 
dear  girl,  who  knows  what  her  situation  may  be  ! 

[E.vii  Mrs.  Candour. 

Lady  S.  'Twas  nothing  but  that  she  could  not  bear 
to  hear  Charles  reflected  on,  notwithstanding  their 
difference. 

Sir  B.    The  young  lady's  penchant  is  obvious. 

Crab.  But,  Benjamin,  you  must  not  give  up  the 
pursuit  for  that:  follow  her,  and  put  her  into  good 
humor.  Repeat  her  some  of  your  own  verses.  Come, 
I'll  assist  you. 

Sir  B.  Mr.  Surface,  I  did  not  mean  to  hurt  you ; 
but,  depend  on't,  your  brother  is  utterly  undone. 

Crab.  O  lud,  ay  !  undone  as  ever  man  was.  Can't 
raise  a  guinea ! 

Sir  B.  And  everything  sold,  I'm  told,  that  was 
movable. 


Crab.  I  have  seen  one  that  was  at  his  house.  Not 
a  thing  left  but  some  empty  bottks  that  were  over- 
looked, and  the  family  pictures,  which  I  believe  are 
framed  in  the  wainscots. 

Sir  B.  And  I'm  ver>'  sorry,  also,  to  hear  some  bad 
stories  against  him. 

Crab.  Oh !  he  has  done  many  mean  things,  that's 
certain. 

Sir  B.    But,  however,  as  he  is  your  brother 

Crab.    We'll  tell  you  all  another  opportunity. 

[Exeunt  Crabtree  and  Sir  Benjamin. 

Lady  S.  Ha,  ha !  'tis  very  hard  for  them  to  leave  a 
subject  they  have  not  quite  run  down. 

Joseph  S,  And  I  believe  the  abuse  was  no  more 
acceptable  to  your  ladyship  than  Maria. 

Lady  S.  I  doubt  her  affections  are  further  engaged 
than  we  imagine.  But  the  family  are  to  be  here  this 
evening,  so  you  may  as  well  dine  where  you  are,  and 
we  shall  have  an  opportunity  of  observing  further  ;  in 
the  meantime,  I'll  go  and  plot  mischief,  and  you  shall 
study  sentiment.  [Exeuni. 

Richard  Brinslev  Sheridan. 


AETER  DEATH.  WHAT? 

Cato  alone ;  in  his  hand  Plato's  book  on  the  Immortality  of  the 
Soul. 
A  drawn  sword  on  the  table  by  him. 

T  must  be  so — Plato,  thou  reason'st  well — 
Else  whence  this  pleasing  hope,  this  fond  desire, 
This  longing  after  immortality? 
Or  whence  this  secret  dread,  and  inward  horror 

Of  falling  into  nought  ?    Why  shrinks  the  soul 

Back  on  herself,  and  startles  at  destruction  ? 

'Tis  the  divinity  that  stirs  within  us  ; 

'Tis  heaven  itself  that  points  out  an  hereafter  ; 

And  intimates  eternity  to  man  : 

Eternity  !  thou  pleasing,  dreadful  thought ! 

Through  what  variety  of  untried  being. 

Through  what  new  scenes  and  changes  must  we  pass  ? 

The  wide,  the  unbounded  prospect  lies  before  me. 

But  shadows,  clouds,  and  darkness  rest  upon  it. 

Here  will  I  hold.     If  there's  a  power  above 

(And  that  there  is  all  nature  cries  aloud 

Through  all  her  works),  he  must  delight  in  virtue; 

And  that  which  he  delights  in  must  be  happy. 

But  when  !  or  whera  !— this  world  was  made  for  Caesar. 

I'm  weary  of  conjectures  — this  must  end  'em 

[Laying  his  hand  on  his  sword. 

Thus  am  I  doubly  armed  :  my  death  and  life. 

My  bane  and  antidote,  are  both  before  me. 

This  in  a  moment  brings  me  to  an  end  ; 

But  this  informs  me  I  shall  never  die. 

The  soul,  secured  in  her  existence,  smiles 

.''Vt  the  drawn  dagger,  and  defies  its  point. 

The  stars  shall  fade  away,  the  sun  himself 

Grow  dim  with  age,  and  nature  sink  in  years  ; 

But  thou  shalt  flourish  in  immortal  youth, 

Unhurt  amid  the  war  of  elements, 


426 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


The  wreck  of  matter,  and  the  crush  of  worlds. 
What  means  this  heaviness  that  hangs  upon  me  ? 
This  lethargy  that  creeps  through  all  my  senses  ? 
Nature  oppressed,  and  harassed  out  with  care 
Sinks  down  to  rest.    This  once  I'll  favor  her, 
That  my  awakened  soul  may  take  her  flight, 
Renewt  d  in  all  her  strength,  and  fresh  with  life, 
An  offering  fit  for  heaven.     Let  guilt  or  fear 
Disturb  man's  rest,  Cato  knows  neither  of  'em, 
Indifferent  in  his  choice  to  sleep  or  die. 

Joseph  Addison. 

THE  MURDER. 

FROM   "M.VCBETH." 
[Scene  in  the  Castle.    Enter  Lady  Macbeth.] 

,AnV  MACBETH.    That  which   hath   made 
them  drunk  hath  made  me  bold, 
What  hath  quenched  them  hath  given  me  fire. 
Hark  ! — Peace  I 
It  was  the  owl  that  shrieked,  the  fatal  bellman, 
Which  gives  the  stern'st  good  night.    He  is  about  it : 
The  doors  are  open  ;  and  the  surfeited  grooms 
Do  mark  tlieir  charge  with  snores :     I  have  drugged 

their  possets. 
That  death  and  nature  do  contend  about  them. 
Whether  they  live  or  die. 

Macbeth  {within).  Who's  there?    What,  ho! 
Lady  M.    Alack,  I  am  afraid  they  have  awaked 
And  'tis  not  done  : — the  attempt  and  not  the  deed 
onfo  unds  us . — Hark ! — I  laid  their  daggers  ready  ; 
He  could  not  miss  them — Had  he  not  resembled 
My  father,  as  he  slept,  I  had  done't. — My  husband  ! 

Macb.     I  have  done  the  deed.     Didst  thou  not  hear 
a  noise  ? 

Lady  M.     I  heard  the  owl  scream,  and  the  crickets 
cry. 
Did  not  you  speak  ? 

Macb.  When  ? 

Lady  M.  Now. 

Macb.  As  I  descended? 

Lady  M.     Ay. 
Macb.     Hark  !— 
Who  lies  i'  the  second  chamber? 

Lady  M.  Donalbain. 

Macb.  {looking  on  his  hands).     This  is  a  sorry  sight. 
Lady  M.     A  foolish  thought,  to  say  a  sorry  sight. 
Macb.     There's  one  did  laugh  in's  sleep,  and  one 
cried,  "Murder  !" 
That  they  did  wake  each  other :   I  stood  and  heard 

them  : 
But  they  did  say  their  prayers,  and  addressed  them 
Again  to  sleep. 
Lady  M.    There  are  two  lodged  together. 
Macb.     One  cried,  "God  bless  us!"  and,  "Amen," 
the  other ; 
As  they  had  seen  me  with  these  hangman's  hands. 
Listening  their  fear,  I  could  not  say,  "  Amen," 
When  they  did  say,  "  God  bless  us." 


Lady  M.  Consider  it  not  so  deeply. 

Macb.      But    wherefore    could    not    I    pronounce 
"Amen?" 
I  had  most  need  of  blessing,  and  "Amen  " 
Stuck  in  my  tliroat. 

Lady  M.     These  deeds  must  not  be  thought 
After  these  ways  ;  so,  it  will  make  us  mad. 

Macb.    Methought  I  heard  a  voice  cry,  "Sleep  no 
more  ! 
Macbeth  does  murder  sleep  " — the  innocent  sleep. 
Sleep  that  knits  up  the  ravelled  sleeve  of  care, 
The  death  of  each  day's  life,  sore  labor's  bath, 
Balm  of  hurt  minds,  great  nature's  second  course, 
Chief  nourisher  in  life's  feast — 

Lady  M.  What  do  you  mean  ? 

Macb.     Still  it  cried,  "Sleep  no  more!"  to  all  the 
house : 
"  Glamis  hath  murdered  sleep  ;  and  tlierefore  Cawdoi 
Shall  sleep  no  more — Macbeth  shall  sleep  no  more  ! '' 

Lady  M.  Who  was  it  that  thus  cried  ?   Why  worthy 
thane, 
You  do  unbend  your  noble  strength,  to  think 
So  brainsickly  of  things. — Go,  get  some  water. 
And  wash  this  filthy  witness  from  your  hand. 
Why  did  you  bring  these  daggers  from  the  place  ? 
They  must  lie  there  :  go  carry  them  ;  and  smear 
The  sleepy  grooms  with  blood. 

Macb.  I'll  go  no  more  \ 

I  am  afraid  to  think  what  I  have  done  ! 
Look  on  't  again,  I  dare  not. 

Lady  M.  Infirm  of  purpose  ! 

Give  me  tlie  daggers  :  the  sleeping  and  the  dead, 
Are  but  as  pictures  :  't  is  the  eye  of  childhood 
That  fears  a  painted  devil.     If  he  do  bleed, 
I'll  gild  the  faces  of  the  grooms  withal ; 
For  it  must  seem  their  guilt. 

\_E^:it.     Knocking  within. 
Macb.  Whence  is  that  knocking  ? 

How  is  't  with  me,  when  every  noise  appalls  me  ? 
What  hands  are  here  !  Ha !  they  pluck  out  mine  eyes  ! 
Will  all  great  Neptune's  ocean  wash  this  blood 
Clean  from  my  hand  ?    No  ;  this  my  hand  will  rather 
The  multitudinous  seas  incarnadine. 
Making  the  green — one  red. 

[Re-enter  Lady  Macbkth.] 

Lady  M.  My  hands  are  of  your  color ;  but  I  shame 
To  wear  a  heart  so  white.      {Knocking.)     I  hear  a 

knocking 
At  the  south  entry : — retire  we  to  our  chamber  : 
A  little  water  clears  us  of  this  deed  : 
How  tasy  is  it,  then  !     Your  constancy 
Hath  left  you  unattended.     {Knocking.)    Hark,  more 

knocking. 
Get  on  your  nightgown,  lest  occasion  call  us. 
And  show  us  to  be  watchers  : — be  not  lost 
So  poorly  in  your  thoughts. 


DRAMATIC   SELECTIONS. 


427 


Macb.   To  know  my  deed,   't  were  best  not  know 
myself.     {Knocking.) 
Wake   Duncan  with  thy    knocking !     I   would  thou 
couldst 

William  Shakespeare. 


A  DAGGER  OF  THE  MIND. 

FROM  "MACBETH." 

k  Iacbeth  before  the  murder  of  Duncan,  meditating  alone,  sees 
the  image  of  a  dagger  in  the  air,  and  thus  soliloquizes :] 

'  S  this  a  dagger  which  I  see  before  me, 

The  handle  toward  my  hand?    Come,  let  me 

clutch  thee : — 
I  have  thee  not,  and  yet  I  see  thee  still. 
Art  thou  not,  fatal  vision,  sensible 
To  feeling  as  to  sight?  or  art  thou  but 
A  dagger  of  the  mind,  a  false  creation, 
Proceeding  from  the  heat-oppressed  brain  ? 
I  see  thee  yet,  in  form  as  palpable 
As  this  which  now  I  draw. 
Thou  marshal'st  me  the  way  that  I  was  going ; 
And  such  an  instrument  I  was  to  use. 
Mine  eyes  are  made  the  fools  o'  the  other  senses, 
Or  else  worth  all  the  rest :  I  see  thee  still ; 
And  on  thy  blade  and  dudgeon  gouts  of  blood. 
Which  was  not  so  before. — There's  no  such  thing  : 
It  is  the  bloody  business,  which  informs 
Thus  to  mine  eyes. — Now  o'er  the  one  half  world 
Nature  seems  daad,  and  wicked  dreams  abuse 
The  curtained  sleep ;  witchcraft  celebrates 
Pale  Hecate's  offerings  ;  and  withered  murder, 
Alarumed  by  his  sentinel,  the  wolf, 
Whose  howl's  his  watch,  thus  with  his  stealthy  pace, 
With  Tarquin's  ravishing  strides,  towards  his  design 
Moves  like  a  ghost. — Thou  sure  and  firm -set  earth. 
Hear  not  my  steps,  which  way  they  walk,  for  fear 
The  very  stones  prate  of  my  whereabout. 
And  take  the  present  horror  from  the  time. 
Which  now  suits  with  it— Whiles  I  threat,  he  lives  : 
Words  to  the  heat  of  deeds  too  cold  breath  gives. 

{A  bell  rings.) 
I  go,  and  it  is  done  ;  the  bell  invites  me. 
Hear  it  not,  Duncan  ;  for  it  is  a  knell 
That  summons  thee  to  heaven  or  to  hell. 

William  Shakespeare. 


"BUBBLES  OF  THE  DAY." 

iFANCY  Fair  in  Guildhall  for  Painting  St.  Pall's] 

IR  PHENIX  CLEAR  CAKE.     I  come  with  a 
petition  to  you— a  petition  not  parliamentary, 
but  charitable.     We  propose,  my  lord,  a  fancy 
fair  in  Guildhall ;    its   object  so  benevolent, 
and  more  than  that,  so  respectable. 

Lord  Skindeep,     Benevolence  and  respectability  ! 

Of  course,  Pm  with  you.     Well,  the  precise  object  ? 

Sir  P.    It  is  to  remove  a  stain — a  very  great  stain 


from  the  city  ;  to  give  an  air  of  maiden  beauty  to  a 
most  venerable  institution  ;  to  exercise  a  renovating 
taste  at  a  most  inconsiderable  outlay  ;  to  call  up,  as  it 
were,  the  snowy  beauty  of  Greece  in  the  coal-smoke 
atmosphere  of  London ;  in  a  word,  my  lord — but  as 
yet  'tis  a  profound  secret — it  is  to  paint  St.  Paul's  ! 
To  give  it  a  virgin  outside — to  make  it  so  truly  re- 
spectable. 

Lord  Skin.    A  gigantic  effort ! 

Sir  P.  The  fancy  fair  will  be  on  a  most  compre- 
hensive and  philanthropic  scale.  Every  alderman 
takes  a  stall,  and  to  give  you  an  idea  of  the  enthu- 
siasm of  the  city — but  this  also  is  a  secret — the 
Lady  Mayoress  has  been  up  three  nights  making  pin- 
cushions. 

Lord  Skin.  But  you  don't  want  me  to  take  a  stall 
— to  sell  pincushions? 

Sir  P.  Certainly  not,  my  lord.  And  yet  your  phil- 
anthropic speeches  in  the  House,  my  lord,  convince 
me  that,  to  obtain  a  certain  good,  you  would  sell  any- 
thing. 

Lord  Skin.  Well,  well  ;  command  me  in  any  way ; 
benevolence  is  my  foible. 

[Companies  for  leasing  Mount  Vesuvius,  for  making  a 
Trip  all  around  thk  World,  for  Buying  the  Serpe.n- 
TiNE  River,  etc.] 

Captain  Smoke.  We  are  about  to  start  a  company 
to  take  on  lease  Mount  Vesuvius  for  the  manufacture 
of  lucifer  matches. 

Sir  P.  A  stupendous  speculation  !  I  should  say 
that,  when  its  countless  advantages  are  duly  num- 
bered, it  will  be  found  a  certain  wheel  of  fortune  to 
the  enlightened  capitalist. 

Smoke.  Now,  sir,  if  you  would  but  take  the  chair 
at  the  first  meeting — {Aside  to  Chatham :  We  shall 
make  it  all  right  about  the  shares) — if  you  would  but 
speak  for  two  or  three  hours  on  the  social  improve- 
ment conferred  by  the  lucifer-match,  with  the  mono- 
poly of  sulphur  secured  in  the  company — a  monopoly 
which  will  suffer  no  man,  woman,  or  child  to  strike  a 
light  without  our  permission. 

Chatham.  Truly,  sir,  in  such  a  cause,  to  such  an 
auditory — I  fear  my  eloquence. 

Smoke.  Sir,  if  you  would  speak  well  anywhere, 
there's  nothing  like  first  grinding  your  eloquence  on 
a  mixed  meeting.  Depend  on  't,  if  you  can  only 
manage  a  little  humbug  with  a  mob,  it  gives  you  great 
confidence  for  another  place. 

Lord  Skin.  Smoke,  never  say  humbug  ;  its  coarse. 

Sir  P.    And  not  respectable. 

Smoke.  Pardon  me,  my  lord,  it  was  coarse.  But 
the  fact  is,  humbug  has  received  such  high  patronage, 
that  now  it's  quite  classic. 

Chat.  But  why  not  embark  his  lordship  In  the  lucifer 
question  ? 

Smoke.  I  can't :  I  have  his  lordship  in  three  com- 
panies already.  Three.  First,  there's  a  company — 
half  a  million  capital — for  extracting  civet  from  asafce- 
tida.    The  second  is  a  company  for  a  trip  all  roimd  the 


428 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


world.  We  propose  to  hire  a  three-decker  of  the 
Lords  of  the  Admiralty,  and  fit  her  up  with  every 
accommodation  for  famiHes.  We've  already  adver- 
tised for  wet-nurses  and  maids  of  all  work. 

Sir  P.  A  magnificent  project !  And  then  the  fit- 
tings-up  will  be  so  respectable.  A  delightful  billiard- 
table  in  the  ward-room  ;  with,  for  the  humbler  classes, 
skittles  on  the  orlop-deck.  Swings  and  archery  for  the 
ladies,  trap-ball  and  cricket  for  the  children,  whilst  the 
marine  sportsman  will  find  the  stock  of  gulls  unlimited. 
Weippert's  quadrille  band  is  engaged,  and 

Smoke.  For  the  convenience  of  lovers,  the  ship  will 
carry  a  parson. 

Chat.    And  the  object  ? 

Smoke.  Pleasure  and  education.  At  every  new 
country  we  shall  drop  anchor  for  at  least  a  week,  that 
the  childrrn  may  go  to  school  and  learn  the  language. 
The  trip  must  answer  :  'twill  occupy  only  three  years, 
and  we've  forgotten  nothing  to  make  it  delightful — 
nothing  from  hot  rolls  to  cork  jackets. 

Brown.    And  now,  sir,  the  third  venture  ? 

Smoke.  That,  sir,  is  a  company  to  buy  the  Serpen- 
tine River  for  a  Grand  Junction  Temperance  Cemetery. 

Brown.     What !  so  many  watery  graves  ? 

Smoke.  Yes,  sir,  with  floating  tombstones.  Here's 
the  prospectus.  Look  here ;  surmounted  by  a  hya- 
cinth—the very  emblem  of  temperance — a  hyacinth 
flowering  in  the  limpid  flood.  Now,  if  you  don't  feel 
equal  to  the  lucifers — I  know  his  lordship's  goodness — 
We'll  give  you  up  the  cemetery.  {Aside  to  Chatham,: 
A  family  vault  as  a  bonus  to  the  chairman.) 

Sir  P.  What  a  beautiful  subject  for  a  speech ! 
Water  lilies  and  aquatic  plants  gemming  the  trans- 
lucent crystal,  shells  of  rainbow  brightness,  a  constant 
supply  of  gold  and  silver  fish,  with  the  right  of  angling 
secured  to  shareholders.  The  extent  of  the  river  being 
necessarily  limited,  will  render  lying  there  so  select,  so 
very  respectable. 

Douglas  Jerrold. 


j  Made  by  the  joiner  squirrel,  or  old  grub, 
i  Time  out  of  mind  the  fairies'  coach-makers. 
And  in  this  state  she  gallops  night  by  night, 
Through  lover's  brains,  and  then  they  dream  of  love  ; 
On  courtiers'  knees,  that  dream  on  courtesies  straight ; 
O'er  lawyers'  fingers,  who  straight  dream  on  fees  ; 
O'er  ladies'  lips,  who  straight  on  kisses  dream  ; 
Which  oft  the  angry  Mab  with  blisters  plagues, 
Because  their  breaths  with  sweetmeats  tainted  are. 
Sometimes  she  gallops  o'er  a  lawyer's  nose, 
And  then  dreams  he  of  smelling  out  a  suit : 
And  sometimes  comes  she  with  tithe-pig's  tail, 
Tickling  a  parson's  nose  as  he  lies  asleep, 
Then  dreams  he  of  another  benefice  : 
Sometimes  she  driveth  o'er  a  soldier's  neck. 
And  then  he  dreams  of  cutting  foreign  throats, 
Of  breaches,  ambuscadoes,  Spanish  blades. 
Of  healths  five  fathom  deep ;  and  then  anon 
Drums  in  his  ear,  at  which  he  starts  and  wakes, 
And,  being  thus  frightened,  swears  a  prayer  or  two, 
And  sleeps  again.     This  is  that  very  Mab 
That  plats  the  manes  of  horses  in  the  night, 
And  bakes  the  elf-locks  in  foul  sluttish  hairs. 
Which,  once  entangled,  m.uch  misfortune  bodes. 
This  is  the  hag,  when  maids  lie  on  their  backs. 
That  presses  them,  and  learns  them  first  to  bear, 
Making  them  women  of  good  carriage. 
This  is  she — 

Romeo.  Peace,  peace,  Mercutio,  peace; 
Thou  talkest  of  nothing. 

Mer.  True,  I  talk  of  dreams  : 
Which  are  the  children  of  an  idle  brain, 
Begot  of  nothing  but  vain  phantasy  ; 
Which  is  as  thin  of  substance  as  the  air ; 
And  more  inconstant  than  the  wind,  who  wooes  ■ 
E'en  now  the  frozen  bosom  of  the  North, 
And,  being  angered,  puffs  away  from  thence, 
Turning  his  face  to  the  dew-dropping  South. 

William  Shakespeare. 


m 


DREAMS. 

FROM  "ROMEO  AND  JULIET." 

ERCUTIO.—O  then,  I  see,  queen  Mab  hath 
been  with  you. 
She  is  the  fairies'  midwife,  and  she  comes, 
^  In  shape  no  bigger  than  an  agate  stone 

On  the  fore-finger  of  an  alderman, 
Drawn  with  a  team  of  little  atomies, 
Athwart  men's  noses  as  they  lie  asleep  : 
Her  wagon-spokes  made  of  long  spinners'  legs  ; 
The  cover,  of  the  wings  of  grasshoppers ; 
The  traces,  of  the  smallest  spider's  web  ; 
The  collars,  of  the  moonshine's  watery  beams  ; 
Her  whip,  of   cricket's  bone  ;  the  lash,  of  film ; 
Her  waggoner,  a  small  gray-coated  gnat, 
Not  half  so  big  as  a  round  little  worm. 
Pricked  from  the  lazy  finger  of  a  maid  : 
Her  chariot  is  an  empty  hazel-nut, 


LOVE'S  ECSTACY. 


FROM  "  THE  FALCON." 


(<J^  REDERICK.—Q\K^K !  my  Giana !  we  will  have 

-1>^     Nothing  but  halcyon  days  :  Oh  !  we  will  live 

A         As  happily  as  the  bees  that  hive  their  sweets, 

And  gaily  as  the  summer  fly,  but  wiser  : 
I'll  be  thy  servant  ever  ;  yet  not  so. 
Oh  !  my  own  love,  divinest,  best,  I'll  be 
Thy  sun  of  life,  faithful  through  every  season, 
And  thou  shalt  be  my  flower  perennial. 
My  bud  of  beauty,  my  imperial  rose, 
My  passion  flower,  and  I  will  wear  thee  on 
My  heart,  and  thou  shalt  never,  never  fade. 
I'll  love  thee  mightily,  my  queen,  and  in 
The  sultry  hours  I'll  sing  thee  to  thy  rest 
With  music  sweeter  than  the  wild  birds'  song  : 
And  I  will  swear  thine  eyes  are  like  the  stars, 
(They  are,  they  are,  but  softer)  and  thy  shape 


DRAMATIC   SELECTIONS. 


429 


Fine  as  the  vaunted  nymphs  who,  poets  feigned. 
Dwelt  lon^  ago  in  woods  of  Arcady. 
My  gentle  deity  !  I'll  crown  thee  with 
The  whitest  lilies  and  then  bow  me  down 
Love's  own  idolater,  and  worship  thee. 
And  thou  zf///then  be  mine?  my  love,  love,  , 

How  fondly  will  we  pass  our  lives  together  ; 
And  wander  heart-linked,  thro'  the  busy  world 
Like  birds  in  eastern  story. 
Ciana.  Oh  !  you  rave. 

Fred.  I'll  be  a  miser  of  thee  ;  watch  thee  ever : 
.At  morn,  at  noon,  at  eve,  and  all  the  night. 
W^  will  have  clocks  that  with  their  silver  chime 
Shall  measure  out  the  moments  :  and  I'll  mark 
The  time,  and  keep  love's  pleasant  calendar. 
To-day  I'll  note  a  smile :  to  morrow  how 
Your  bright  eyes  spoke — how  saucily  ;  and  then 
Record  a  kiss  plucked  from  your  currant  lip, 
And  say  how  long  'twas  taking  ;  then,  thy  voice 
As  rich  as  stringed  harp  swept  by  the  winds 
In  autumn,  gentle  as  the  touch  that  falls 
On  serenader's  moonlit  instrument — 
Nothing  shall  pass  unheeded.    Thou  shalt  be 
My  household  goddess — nay,  smile  not,  nor  shake 
Backwards  thy  clustering  curls,  incredulous  : 
I  swear  it  shall  be  so  :  it  shall,  my  love. 

Cia.  Why  thourt  mad  indeed :  mad. 

Fred.  Oh  !  not  so. 
There  was  a  statuary  once  who  loved 
And  worshipped  the  white  marble  that  he  shaped  ; 
Till,  as  the  story  goes,  the  Cyprus'  queen, 
Or  some  such  fine  kind-hearted  deity, 
Touched  the  pale  stone  with  life,  and  it  became 
At  last  Pygmalion's  bride :  but  thee,  on  whom 
Nature  had  lavished  all  her  wealth  before. 
Now  love  has  touched  with  beauty  :  doubly  fit 
For  human  worship  thou,  thou— let  me  pause. 
My  breath  is  gone. 

Gia.  With  talking. 

Fred.  With  delight. 
But  I  may  worship  thee  in  silence,  still. 

Gia.  The  evening's  dark  ;  now  I  must  go  :  farewell 
Until  to-morrow 

Fred.  Oh  !  not  yet,  not  yet. 
Behold  !  the  moon  is  up,  the  briget-eyed  moon, 
And  seems  to  shed  her  soft  delicious  light 
On  lovers  reunited.     Why,  she  smiles, 
And  bids  you  tarry  :  will  you  disobey 
The  lady  of  the  sky?  beware. 

Gia.  Farewell. 
Nay,  nay,  I  must  go. 

Fred.  We  will  go  together. 

Gia.  It  must  not  be  to-night :  my  servants  wait 
My  coming  at  the  fisher's  cottage. 

Fred.  Yet, 
A  few  more  words,  and  then  I'll  part  with  thee. 
For  one  long  night :  to-morrow  bid  me  come 
(Thou  hast  already  with  thine  eyes)  and  bring 
My  load  of  love  and  lay  it  at  thy  feet. 


— Oh  !  ever  while  those  floating  orbs  look  bright, 
Shalt  thou  to  me  be  a  sweet  guiding  light. 
Once,  the  Chaldean  from  the  topmost  tower 
Did  watch  the  stars,  and  then  assert  their  power 
Throughout  the  world  :  so,  dear  Giana,  I 
Will  vindicate  my  own  idolatry. 
And  in  the  beauty  and  the  spell  that  lies 
In  the  dark  azure  of  thy  love-lit  eyes  ; 
In  the  clear  veins  that  wind  thy  neck  beside, 
'Till  in  the  white  depths  of  thy  breast  they  hide, 
And  in  thy  polished  forehead,  and  thy  hair 
Heaped  in  thick  tresses  on  thy  shoulders  fair  ; 
In  thy  calm  dignity  ;  thy  modest  sense ; 
In  thy  most  soft  and  winning  eloquence ; 
In  woman's  gentleness  and  love  (now  bent 
On  me,  so  poor)  shall  lie  my  argument. 

Bryan  Waller  Procter  {Barry  Cor-mc/sUt), 


FROM="OTHELLC." 

REPUTATIOX. 

^'K.OO'D  name,  m  man  and  woman,  dear  my  lord, 
I  ^  Pt     Is  the  immediate  jewel  of  their  souis : 
V^     Who  steals  my  purse  steals  trasn;    'tis  some- 
j  thing,  nothing ; 

'T  was  mine,  't  is  his,  and  has  been  slave  to  thousands. 

But  he  that  filches  from  me  my  good  name, 

Robs  me  of  that  which  not  enricFies  him. 

And  makes  me  poor  indeed. 

JEALOUSV, 

Trifles  light  as  air 
Are,  to  the  jealous,  confirmation  strong 
As  proofs  of  holy  writ. 

Othello's  story  of  the  handkerchief. 
That  handkerchief 
Did  an  Egyptian  to  my  mother  give  ; 
She  was  a  charmer  and  could  almost  read 
The  thoughts  of  people ;  she  told  her,  while  she  kept  it, 
'Twould  make  her  amiable,  and  subdue  my  father 
Entirely  to  her  love  ;  but  if  she  lost  it, 
Or  made  a  gift  of  it,  my  father's  eye 
Should  hold  her  loathly,  and  his  spirits  should  hunt 
After  new  fancies.    She,  dying,  gave  it  me ; 
And  bid  me,  when  my  fate  would  have  me  wived, 
To  give  it  her.     I  did  so ;  and  take  heed  oft. 
Make  jt  a  darling,  like  your  precious  eye  ; 
To  lose  't  or  give  't  away,  were  such  perdition. 

As  nothing  else  could  match. 

There's  magic  in  the  web  of  it : 
A  sibyl,  that  had  numbered  in  the  world 
The  sun  to  make  two  hundred  compasses. 
In  her  prophetic  fury  sewed  the  work  : 
The  worms  were  hallowed  that  did  breed  the  silk ; 
And  it  was  dyed  in  mummy,  which  the  skilful 
Conserved  of  maidens'  hearts. 

Othello's  pathetic  upbraiding  of  his  wife. 

Desdemona.  Upon  my  knees,  what  doth  your  speech 
import? 


430 


CROWN   JEWELS. 


I  understand  a  fury  in  your  words, 
But  not  your  words. 

0th.  Why,  what  art  thou? 

Des.  Your  wife,  my  lord ;  your  true  and  loyal  wife. 

Oth.  Come,  swear  it;  damn  thyself; 
Lest,  being  like  one  of  heaven,  the  devils  themselves 
Should  fear  to  seize  thee :  therefore,  be  double  damned ; 
Swear  thou  art  honest. 

Des.  Heaven  doth  truly  know  it. 

Oth.  Heaven  truly  knows,  that  thou  art  false  as 
hell. 

Des.  To  whom,  my  lord?    With  whom?    How  am  I 
false  ? 

Oth.  O,  Desdemona,  away !  away !  away ! 

Des.  Alas,  the  heavy  day  !  why  do  you  weep? 
Am  I  the  occasion  of  these  tears,  my  lord  ? 
If,  haply,  you  my  father  do  suspect 
An  instrument  of  this  your  calling  back, 
Lay  not  your  blame  on  me ;  if  you  have  lost  him, 
Why,  I  have  lost  him  too. 

Oth.  Had  it  pleased  Heaven 
To  try  we  with  affliction  ;  had  he  rained 
All  kinds  of  sores,  and  shames,  on  my  bare  head ; 
Steeped  me  in  poverty  to  the  very  lips  ; 
Given  to  captivity  me  and  my  utmost  hopes ; 
I  should  have  found  in  some  part  of  my  soul 
A  drop  of  patience.     But,  alas  I  to  make  me 
A  fixed  figure,  for  the  time  of  scorn 
To  point  his  slow,  unmoving  finger  at — 
O!  O! 

Yet  could  I  bear  that  too  ;  well,  very  well. 
But  there,  where  I  have  garnered  up  my  heart ; 
Where  either  I  must  live,  or  bear  no  life  : 
The  fountain  from  the  which  my  current  runs, 
Or  else  dries  up  ;  to  be  discarded  thence  ! 
Or  keep  it  as  a  cistern,  for  foul  toads 
To  knot  and  gender  in  !    Turn  thy  complexion  there ! 
Patience,  thou  young  and  rose-lipped  cherubim  ; 
Ay,  there,  look  prim  as  hell ! 

Des.  I  hope,  my  noble  lord  esteems  me  honest. 

Oth.  O,  ay ;  as  summer-flies  are  in  the  shambles, 
That  quicken  even  with  blowing.     O  thou  weed. 
Who  art  so  lovely  fair,  and  smell'st  so  sweet. 
That  the  sense  aches  at  thee,  would  thou  hadst  ne'er 
been  born! 

Des.  Alas  !  what  ignorant  sin  have  I  committed  ? 

Oth.  Was  this  fair  paper,  this  most  goodly  book, 
Made  to  write  shame  upon  !  what,  committed ! 
Committed !  O  thou  public  commoner ! 
I  should  make  very  forges  of  my  cheeks 
That  would  to  cinders  burn  up  modesty. 
Did  I  but  speak  thy  deeds. — What,  committed  ! 
Heaven  stops  the  nose  at  it,  and  the  moon  winks  : 
The  bawdy  wind,  that  kisses  all  it  meets. 
Is  hushed  within  the  hollow  mine  of  earth, 
And  will  not  hear  it. 
Her  name,  that  was  as  fresh 
As  Dian's  visage,  is  now  begrimed  and  black 
As  mine  own  face. 


O  now,  for  ever, 
Farewell  the  tranquil  mind  !     Farewell  content! 
Farewell  the  plumed  troop,  and  the  big  wars, 
That  make  ambition  virtue  !     O  farewell ! 
Farewell  the  neighing  steed,  and  the  shrill  trump, 
The  spirit-stirring  drum,  the  ear-piercing  fife. 
The  royal  banner ;  and  all  quality. 
Pride,  pomp,  and  circumstance  of  glorious  war ! 
And,  O  you  mortal  engines,  whose  rude  throats 
Th'  immortal  Jove's  dread  clamors  counterfeit, 
Farewell !    Othello's  occupation  's  gone  ! 
desdemona's  faithfulness. 
Des.    O  good  lago, 
What  shall  I  do  to  win  my  lord  again  ? 
Good  friend,  go  to  him ;  for,  by  this  light  of  heaven, 
I  know  not  how  I  lost  him.    Here  I  kneel — 

\_Knecling, 
If  e'er  my  will  did  trespass  'gainst  his  love. 
Either  in  discourse  of  thought,  or  actual  deed 
Or  that  mine  eyes,  mine  ears, or  any  sense, 
Delighted  them  in  any  other  form  ; 
Or  that  I  do  not  yet,  and  ever  did, 
And  ever  will — though  he  do  shake  me  off 
To  beggarly  divorcement — love  him  dearly, 
Comfort,  forswear  me  !  Unkindness  may  do  much, 
And  his  unkindness  may  defeat  my  life. 
But  never  taint  my  love. 

DESDEMONA  IS  DISCOVERED  ASLEEP  IN  HER  BED. 
[Enter  Othello,  with  a  light  and  sword.] 

Oth.     It  is  the  cause,  it  is  the  cause,  my  soul — 
Let  me  not  name  it  to  you,  you  chaste  stars  ! 
It  is  the  cause. — Yet  I'll  not  shed  her  blood, 
Nor  scar  that  whiter  skin  of  hers  than  snow, 
And  smooth  as  monumental  alabaster. 

\_Lays  down  the  sword. 
Yet  she  must  die,  else  she'll  betray  more  men. 
Put  out  the  light,  and  then  put  out  the  light ! 
If  I  quench  thee,  thou  flaming  minister, 
I  can  again  thy  former  light  restore. 
Should  I  repent  me  ;  but  once  put  out  thy  light. 
Thou  cunning'st  pattern  of  excelling  nature, 
I  know  not  where  is  that  Promethean  heat 
That  can  thy  light  relume. 

\_Sets  down  the  taper. 
When  I  have  plucked  thy  rose, 
I  cannot  give  it  vital  growth  again ; 
It  needs  must  wither :  I  smell  it  on  the  tree. 

\_Kissing  her. 
O  balmy  breath,  that  dost  almost  persuade  -^ 

Justice  herself  to  break  her  sword  !    One  more, 
Be  thus  when  thou  art  dead,  and  I  will  kill  thee, 
And  love  thee  after :  one  more,  and  this  the  last : 
So  sweet  was  ne'er  so  fatal.    I  must  weep. 
But  they  are  cruel  tears  ;  this  sorrow's  heavenly  ; 
It  strikes  where  it  doth  love. 

OTHELLO'S     CONFUSION    AFTER    HAVING   MURDERED 
HIS  WIFE. 

Yes  'tis  Emilia  : — ^by-and-by — she's  dead. 
'Tis  like,  she  comes  to  speak  of  Cassio's  death : 


DRAMATIC   SELECTIONS. 


431 


The  noise  was  high.    Ha!  no  more  moving? 

Siill  as  the  grave.    Shall  she  come  in  ?    wert  't  good  ? 

I  think  she  stirs  again  ; — no — what's  the  best  ? 

If  she  comes  in,  she'll  sure  speak  to  my  wife: — 

My  wife  !  my  wife  !  what  wife  ?     I  have  no  wife. 

0  insupportable  !     O  heavy  hour  ! 
Methinks  it  should  be  now  a  huge  eclipse 

Of  sun  and  moon  ;  and  that  the  affrighted  globe 
Should  yawn  at  alteration. 

Had  she  been  true, 
If  Heaven  would  make  me  such  another  world, 
Of  one  entire  and  perfect  chrysolite, 
Id  not  have  sold  her  for  it. 

Othello's  bitter  remorse. 
Behold !  I  have  a  weapon  : 
A  better  never  did  itself  sustain 
Upon  a  soldier's  thigh  :  I've  seen  the  day, 
That,  with  this  little  arm,  and  this  good  sword, 

1  have  made  my  way  through  more  impediments 
Than  twenty  times  your  stop.— But,  O  vain  boast ! 
Who  can  control  his  fate  ?  it  is  not  so  now. 

Be  not  afraid,  though  you  do  see  me  weaponed. 

Here  is  my  journey's  end,  here  is  my  butt. 

And  very  sea-mark  of  my  utmost  sail. 

Do  you  go  back  dismayed  ?  'tis  a  lost  fear ; 

Man  but  a  rush  against  Othello's  breast. 

And  he  retires  :  where  should  Othello  go  ? 

Now— how  dost  thou  look  now  ?    O  ill-starred  wench  ! 

Pale  as  thy  smock  !  when  we  shall  meet  at  compt, 

This  look  of  thine  will  hurl  my  soul  from  heaven. 

And  fiends  will  snatch  at  it.    Cold,  cold,  my  girl  ? 

E'en  like  thy  chastity — 

O  cursed,  cursed  slave !— Whip  me,  ye  devils, 

From  the  possession  of  this  heavenly  sight ! 

Blow  me  about  in  winds  !  roast  me  in  sulphur ! 

Wash  me  in  steep-down  gulfs  of  liquid  fire  1 

0  Desdemona  !  Desdemona  I  dead? 
Dead  ?  O  !  O  !  O  ! 

Othello's  last  speech. 
Soft  you  ;  a  word  or  two  before  you  go. 

1  have  done  the  state  some  service,  and  they  know  it ; 
No  more  of  that.— I  pray  you,  in  your  letters, 

When  you  shall  these  unlucky  deeds  relate, 
Speak  of  me  as  I  am  :  nothing  extenuate. 
Nor  set  down  aught  in  malice  :  then  must  ^-ou  speak 
Of  one  that  loved  not  wisely,  but  too  well : 
Of  one  not  easily  jealous,  but,  being  wrought. 
Perplexed  in  the  extreme  ;  of  one  whose  hand, 
Like  the  base  Judean,  threw  a  pearl  away 
Richer  than  all  his  tribe  ;  of  one  whose  subdued  eyes, 
Albeit  unused  to  the  melting  mood, 
Drop  tears  as  fast  as  the  Arabian  trees 
Their  medicinal  gum.     Set  you  down  this  : 
And  say,  besides,  that  in  Aleppo  once, 
Where  a  malignant  and  a  turbaned  Turk 
Beat  a  Venetian,  and  traduced  th«  state, 
I  took  by  the  throat  the  circumcised  dog. 
And  smote  him— thus.  [S^ads  himself. 

William  Shakespeare.     I 


FROM  -JULIUS  C/tSAR." 

CASSIUS,  IN  CONTEMPT  OF  C^SAR. 

WAS  bom  free  as  Caesar ;  so  were  you  : 
We  both  have  fed  as  well ;  and  we  can  both 
Endure  the  winter's  cold  as  well  as  he. 
For  once,  upon  a  raw  and  gusty  day, 
The  troubkd  Tiber  chafing  with  his  shores, 
Caesar  says  to  me,  "  Dar'st  thou,  Cassius,  now 
Leap  in  with  me  into  this  angry  flood, 
And  swim  to  yonder  point?" — Upon  the  word, 
Accoutred  as  I  was,  I  plunged  in. 
And  bade  him  follow  :  so,  indeed,  he  did. 
The  torrent  roared,  and  we  did  buffet  it 
With  lusty  sinews  ;  throwing  it  aside. 
And  stemming  it  with  hearts  of  controversy. 
But  ere  we  could  arrive  the  point  proposed, 
Caesar  cried,  "  Help  me,  Cassius,  or  I  sink." 
I,  as  -.Eneas,  our  great  ancestor, 
Did  from  the  flames  of  Troy  upon  his  shoulder 
The  old  Anchises  bear,  so  from  the  waves  of  Tiber 
Did  I  the  tired  Caesar  :  and  this  man 
Is  now  become  a  god  ;  and  Cassius  is 
A  wretched  creature,  and  must  bend  his  body 
If  Caesar  carelessly  but  nod  on  him. — 
He  had  a  fever  when  he  was  in  Spain  ; 
And,  when  the  fit  was  on  him,  I  did  mark 
How  he  did  shake :  'tis  true,  this  god  did  shake , 
His  coward  lips  did  from  their  color  fly  ; 
And  that  same  eye,  whose  bend  doth  awe  the  world, 
Did  lose  his  lustre  ;  I  did  hear  him  groan  : 
Ay,  and  that  tongue  of  his,  that  bade  the  Romans 
Mark  him,  and  write  his  speeches  in  their  books, 
Alas  !  it  cried — "Give  me  some  drink,  Titinius  " — 
As  a  sick  girl.     Ye  gods,  it  doth  amaze  me, 
A  man  of  such  a  feeble  temper  should 
So  get  the  start  of  this  majestic  world. 
And  bear  the  palm  alone. 

OPPORTUNITY  TO  BE  SEIZED  ON  ALL  AFFAIRS. 

There  is  a  tide  in  the  affairs"  of  men. 
Which,  taken  at  the  flood,  leads  on  to  fortune  ; 
Omitted,  all  the  voyage  of  their  life 
Is  bound  in  shallows  and  in  miseries. 
On  such  a  full  sea  are  we  now  afloat ; 
And  we  must  take  the  current  when  it  ser\'es 
Or  lose  our  ventures. 


ANTONY'S  CHARACTER  OF  ERUTIS. 

This  was  the  noblest  Roman  of  them  all : 
All  the  conspirators,  save  only  he, 
Did  that  they  did,  in  envy  of  great  Caesar ; 
He,  only,  in  a  general  honest  thought, 
And  common  good  to  all,  made  one  of  them. 
His  life  was  gentle ;  and  the  elements 
So  mixt  in  him,  that  nature  might  stand  up. 
And  say  to  all  the  world,  "This  was  a  man  ! " 

William  Shakkspkark. 


432 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


CARACTACUS. 

|EFORE  proud  Rome's  imperial  throne 
In  mind's  unconquered  mood, 
As  if  the  triumph  were  his  own, 
The  dauntless  captive  stood. 
None,  to  have  seen  his  free-born  air, 
Had  fancied  him  a  captive  there. 

Though,  through  the  crowded  streets  of  Rome, 

With  slow  and  stately  tread, 
Far  from  his  own  loved  island  home, 

That  day  in  triumph  led — 
Unbound  his  head,  unbent  his  knee, 
Undimmed  his  eye,  his  aspect  free. 

A  free  and  fearless  glance  he  cast 

On  temple,  arch,  and  tower. 
By  which  the  long  procession  passed 

Of  Rome's  victorious  power ; 
And  somewhat  of  a  scornful  smile 
Uncurled  his  haughty  lip  the  while. 

And  now  he  stood,  with  brow  serene. 
Where  slaves  might  prostrate  fall, 

Bearing  a  Briton's  manly  mien 
In  Caesar's  palace  hall; 

Claiming,  with  kindled  brow  and  cheek, 

The  liberty  e'tn  there  to  speak. 

Nor  could  Rome's  haughty  lord  withstand 

The  claim  that  look  preferred. 
But  motioned  with  uplifted  hand 

The  suppliant  should  be  heard — 
If  he  indeed  a  suppliant  were 
Whose  glance  demanded  audience  there. 

Deep  stillness  fell  on  all  the  crowd, 

From  Claudius  on  his  throne 
Down  to  the  meanest  slave  that  bowed 

At  his  imperial  throne ; 
Silent  his  fellow-captive's  grief 
As  fearless  spoke  the  Island  Chief: 

'*  Think  not,  thou  eagle  Lord  of  Rome, 

And  master  of  the  world. 
Though  victory's  banner  o'er  thy  dome 

In  triumph  now  is  furled, 
I  would  address  thee  as  thy  slave, 
But  as  the  bold  should  greet  the  brave ! 

"  I  might,  perchance,  could  I  have  deigned 

To  hold  a  vassal's  throne. 
E'en  now  in  Britain's  isle  have  reigned 

A  king  in  name  alone, 
Yet  holding,  as  thy  meek  ally, 
A  monarch's  mimic  pageantry. 

"  Then  through  Rome's  crowded  streets  to-day 
I  might  hiave  rode  with  thee, 


Not  in  a  captive's  ba.se  arraj- 

But  fetterless  and  free — 
If  freedom  he  could  hope  to  find. 
Whose  bondage  is  of  heart  and  mind. 

"But  canst  thou  marvel  that,  freeborn. 

With  heart  and  soul  unquelled. 
Throne,  crown,  and  sceptre  I  should  scorn, 

By  thy  permission  held  ? 
Or  that  I  should  retain  my  right 
Till  wrested  by  a  conqueror's  might  ? 

"Rome,  with  her  palaces  and  towers. 

By  us  unwished,  unreft, 
Her  homely  huts  and  woodland  bowers 

To  Britain  might  have  left ; 
Worthless  to  you  their  wealth  must  be, 
But  dear  to  us,  for  they  were  free  ! 

"I  might  have  bowed  before,  but  where 
Had  been  thy  triumph  now  ? 
To  my  resolve  no  yoke  to  bear 

Thou  ow'st  thy  laurelled  brow ; 
Inglorious  victory  had  been  thine, 
And  more  inglorious  bondage  mine. 

''Now  I  have  spoken,  do  thy  will ; 

Be  life  or  death  my  lot, 
Since  Britain's  throne  no  more  I  fill. 

To  me  it  matters  not. 
My  fame  is  clear  ;  but  on  my  fate 
Thy  glory  or  thy  shame  must  wait." 

He  ceased ;  from  all  around  upsprung 

A  murmur  of  applause. 
For  well  had  truth  and  freedom's  tongue 

Maintained  their  holy  cause. 
The  conquerer  was  the  captive  then  ; 
He  bade  the  slave  be  free  again. 

Bernard  Barton. 


THE  MISTLETOE  BOUGH. 

'HE  mistletoe  hung  in  the  castle  hall, 

The  holly  branch  shone  on  the  old  oak  wall ; 
And  the  baron's  retainers  were  blithe  and 

gay, 

And  keeping  their  Christmas  holiday. 
The  baron  beheld  with  a  father's  pride 
His  beautiful  child,  young  Lovell's  bride ; 
While  she  with  her  bright  eyes  seemed  to  be 
The  star  of  the  goodly  company. 

"  I'm  weary  of  dancing  now,"  she  cried  ; 
"Here  tarry  a  moment — I'll  hide,  I'll  hide! 
And,  Lovell,  be  sure  thou'rt  first  to  trace 
The  clew  to  my  secret  lurking-place." 


DRAMATIC  SELECTIONS. 


433 


Away  she  ran— and  her  friends  began 

Each  tower  to  search,  and  each  nook  to  scan: 

And  young  Lovell  cried,  "O,  where  dost  thou  hide? 

I'm  lonesome  without  thee,  my  own  dear  bride." 

They  sought  her  that  night,  and  they  sought  her  next 

day. 
And  they  sought  her  in  vain  when  a  week  passed 

away ; 
In  the  highest,  the  lowest,  the  loneliest  spot. 
Young  Lovell  sought  wildly — but  found  her  not. 
And  years  flew  by,  and  their  grief  at  last 
Was  told  as  a  sorrowful  tale  long  past ; 
And  when  Lovell  appeared,  the  children  cried, 
"See!  the  old  man  weeps  for  his  fairy  bride." 

At  lengtk  an  oak  chest,  that  had  long  lain  hid, 
Was  found  in  the  castle — they  raised  the  lid, 
And  a  skeleton  form  lay  mouldering  there 
In  the  bridal  wreath  of  that  lady  fair  1 
O,  sad  was  her  fate ! — in  sportive  jest 
She  hid  from  her  lord  in  the  old  oak  chest. 
It  closed  with  a  spring ! — and,  dreadful  doom. 
The  bride  lay  clasped  in  her  living  tomb ! 

Thomas  Haynes  Bayly. 


LUCIUS  JUNIUS  BRUTUS'  ORATION  OVER 
THE  BODY  OF  LUCRETIA. 


^ 


FROM   "  BRUTUS." 

'OULD  you  know  why  I  summoned  you  to- 
gether? 
Ask  ye  what  brings  me  here  ?    Behold  this 
dagger. 
Clotted  with  gore !    Behold  that  frozen  corse ! 
See  where  the  lost  Lucretia  sleeps  in  death  ! 
She  was  the  mark  and  model  of  the  time. 
The  mould  in  which  each  female  face  was  formed 
The  very  shrine  and  sacristy  of  virtue  ! 
Fairer  than  ever  was  a  form  created 
By  youthful  fancy  when  the  blood  strays  wild, 
And  never-resting  thought  is  all  on  fire ! 
The  worthiest  of  the  worthy  !     Not  the  nymph 
Who  met  old  Numa  in  his  hallowed  walks. 
And  whispered  in  his  ear  her  strains  divine. 
Can  I  conceive  beyond  her ; — the  young  choir 
Of  vestal  virgins  bent  to  beri    'T  is  wonderful 

28 


Amid  the  darnel,  hemlock,  and  the  base  weeds. 

Which  now  spring  rife  from  the  luxurious  compost 

Spread  o'er  the  realm,  how  this  sweet  lily  rose — 

How  from  the  shade  of  those  ill  neighboring  plants 

Her  father  sheltered  her,  that  not  a  leaf 

Was  blighted,  but,  arrayed  in  purest  grace. 

She  bloomed  unsullied  beauty.    Such  perfections 

Might  have  called  back  the  torpid  breast  of  age 

To  long- forgotten  rapture ;  such  a  mind 

Might  have  abashed  the  boldest  libertine 

And  turned  desire  to  reverential  love 

And  holiest  affection  !     O  my  countrymen  ! 

You  all  can  witness  when  that  she  went  forth 

It  was  a  holiday  in  Rome  ;  old  age 

Forgot  its  crutch,  labor  its  task — all  ran, 

And  mothers,  turning  to  their  daughters,  cried, 

"  There,  there's  Lucretia  !  "     Now  look  ye  where  she 

lies! 
That  beauteous  flower,  that  innocent  sweet  rose. 
Torn  up  by  ruthless  violence — gone  !  gone  !  gone  ! 

Say,  would  you  seek  instruction  !  would  ye  ask 
Wliat  ye  should  do  ?    Ask  ye  yon  conscious  walls 
Which  saw  his  poisoned  brother — 
Ask  yon  deserted  street,  where  Tullia  drove 
O'er  her  dead  father's  corse,  't  will  cry,  revenge ! 
Ask  yonder  senate-house,  whose  stones  are  purple 
With  human  blood,  and  it  will  cry,  revenge ! 
Go  to  the  tomb  where  lies  his  murdered  wife. 
And  the  poor  queen,  who  loved  him  as  her  son, 
Their  unappeasM  ghosts  will  shriek,  revenge ! 
The  temples  of  the  gods,  the  all-viewing  heavens, 
The  gods  themselves,  shall  justify  the  cry. 
And  swell  the  general  sound,  revenge  !  revenge ! 

And  we  will  be  revenged,  my  countrymen  I 
Brutus  shall  lead  you  on  ;  Brutus,  a  name 
Which  will,  when  you're  revenged,  be  dearer  to  him 
Than  all  the  noblest  titles  earth  can  boast. 

Brutus  your  king  ! — No,  fellow-citizens  ! 
If  mad  ambition  in  this  guilty  frame 
Had  strung  one  kingly  fibre,  yea,  but  one — 
By  all  the  gods,  this  dagger  which  I  hold 
Should  rip  it  out,  though  it  intwined  my  heart. 

Now  take  the  body  up.     Bear  it  before  us 
To  Tarquin's  palace  ;  there  we'll  light  our  torches, 
And  in  the  blazing  conflagration  rear 
A  pile,  for  these  chaste  relics,  that  shall  send 
Her  soul  amongst  the  stars.    On  !  Brutus  leads  you  I 
John  Howard  Payne. 


POETICAL  CURIOSITIES. 


LIFE. 

[Composed  of  lines  selected  from  tWrty-eight  authors.] 


'HY  all  this  toil  for  triumphs 
of  an  hour  ? 

( Young.) 

Life's  a  short  summer — 

man  is  but  a  flower ; 

{Jolmson.) 

By   turns  we    catch    the 

fatal  breath  and  die — 

{Pope.) 

The  cradle  and  the  tomb, 

alas !  so  nigh. 

{Prior.) 
To  be  is  better  far  than 
not  to  be,     {Serve II.) 
Though    all    man's    life 
may  seem  a  tragedy; 
{Spenser.) 
But  light  cares  speak  when  mighty  griefs  are  dumb — 

{Daniel.) 
The  bottom  is  but  shallow  whence  they  come. 

{Raleigh.) 
Your  fate  is  but  the  common  fate  of  all ;  {Longjellozv.) 
Unmingled  joys  can  here  no  man  befall ;  {Southwell.) 
Nature  to  each  allots  his  proper  sphere.  {Congreve.) 
Fortune  makes  folly  her  peculiar  care  ;  ( Churchill.) 
Custom  does  often  reason  overrule,  {Rochester.) 

And  throw  a  cruel  sunshme  on  a  fool.       {Armstrong.) 
Live  well — how  long  or  short  permit  to  heaven. 

{Milton.) 
They  who  forgive  most,  shall  be  most  forgiven. 

{Bailey.) 
Sin  may  be  clasped  so  close  we  cannot  see  its  face — 

{French.) 
Vile  intercourse  where  virtue  has  no  place. 

{Somerville.) 
Then  keep  each  passion  down,  however  dear, 

( Thomson.) 
Thou  pendulum  betwixt  a  smile  and  tear;  {Byron.) 
Her  sensual  snares  let  faithless  pleasure  lay, 

{Stnollett.) 
With  craft  and  skill  to  ruin  and  betray.  {Crabbe.) 

Soar  not  too  high  to  fall,  but  stoop  to  rise ; 

{Massinger.) 
We  masters  grow  of  all  that  we  despise.  {Crowley.) 
Oh,  then,  renounce  that  impious  self-esteem  ;  {Beattie.) 
Riches  have  wings,  and  grandeur  is  a  dream. 

{CowPer.) 
Think  not  ambition  wise  because  't  is  brave — 

{Davenant.) 

(434) 


{Gray.) 

{miiis.) 

{Addison.) 
{Dry  den.) 
{Quarles.) 


The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave. 
What  is  ambition  ?    'T  is  a  glorious  cheat. 
Only  destructive  to  the  brave  and  grevit. 
What's  all  the  gaudy  glitter  of  a  crown  ? 
The  way  to  bliss  lies  not  on  beds  of  down. 
How  long  we  live,  not  years  but  actions  tell ; 

( IVatkins.) 
The  man  lives  twice  who  lives  the  first  life  well. 

{Herricfc.) 
Make,  then,  while  yet  ye  may,  your  God  your  friend, 

{Mason.) 
Whom  Christians  worship,  yet  not  comprehend. 

{Hill.) 
The  trust  that's  given,  guard,  and  to  yourself  be  just ; 

{Dana.) 
For  live  we  how  we  may,  yet  die  we  must. 

{Shakespeare.) 


THE  BEAUTIES  OF  ENGLISH  ORTHOGRAPHY. 


(3 


PRETTY  deer  is  dear  to  me, 

A  hare  with  downy  hair, 
A  hart  I  love  with  all  my  heart. 
But  barely  bear  a  bear. 


'Tis  plain  that  no  one  takes  a  plane. 

To  have  a  pair  of  pears, 
Although  a  rake  may  take  a  rake 

To  tear  away  the  tares. 

A  scribe  in  writing  right  may  write. 
May  write  and  still  be  wrong  ; 

For  write  and  rite  are  neither  right, 
And  don't  to  right  belong. 

Robertson  is  not  Robert's  son, 
Nor  did  he  rob  Burt's  son, 

Yet  Robert's  sun  is  Robin's  sun. 
And  everybody's  sun. 

Beer  often  brings  a  bier  to  man, 

Coughing  a  coffin  brings. 
And  too  much  ale  will  make  us  ail, 

As  well  as  other  things. 

The  person  lies  who  says  he  lies, 

When  he  is  net  reclining  ; 
And  when  consumptive  folks  decline. 

They  all  decline  declining. 

Quails  do  not  quail  before  the  storm, 

A  bow  will  bow  before  it ; 
We  cannot  rein  the.rain  at  all — 

No  earthly  power  reigns  o'er  it. 


POETICAL  CURIOSITIES. 


435 


The  dyer  dyes  a  while,  then  dies — 

To  dye  he's  always  trying  ; 
Until  upon  his  dying  bed 

He  thinks  no  more  of  dyeing. 

A  son  of  Mars  mars  many  a  son, 

And  Deys  must  have  their  days  ; 
And  every  knight  should  pray  each  night 

To  Him  who  weighs  his  ways. 

'Tis  meet  that  man  should  mete  out  meat 

To  feed  one's  future  son  ; 
The  fare  should  fare  on  love  alone, 

Else  one  cannot  be  won.  , 

The  springs  shoot  forth  each  spring,  and  shoots 

Shoot  forward  one  and  all ; 
Though  summer  kills  the  flowers,  it  leaves 

The  leaves  to  fall  in  fall. 

I  would  a  story  here  commence,  x 

But  you  might  think  it  stale  ; 
So  we'll  suppose  that  we  have  reached 

The  tail  end  of  our  tale. 


TO  MY  INFANT  SON 

'HOU  happy,  happy  df ! 

(But  stop,  first  let  me  kiss  away  that  tear,) 
Thou  tiny  image  of  myself ! 
*f       (My  love,  he's  poking  peas  into  his  ear,) 
Thou  merry,  laughing  sprite, 
With  spirits  feather  light. 
Untouched  by  sorrow  and  unsoiled  by  sin  ; 
(My  dear,  the  child  is  swallowing  a  pin  !) 

Thou  little  tricksy  Puck  ! 

With  antic  toys  so  funnily  bestuck, 

Light  as  the  singing  bird  that  rings  the  air — 

(The  door !  the  door  !  he'll  tumble  down  the  stair !) 

Thou  darling  of  thy  sire  ! 

Why,  Jane,  he'll  set  his  pinafore  afire  !) 

Thou  imp  of  mirth  and  joy  ! 
In  love's  dear  chain  so  bright  a  link. 

Thou  idol  of  ihy  parents  ;  (Drat  the  boy  ! 
There  goes  my  ink.) 

Thou  cherub,  but  of  earth  ; 
Fit  playfellow  for  fairies  by  moonlight  pale, 

In  harmless  sport  and  mirth ; 
(That  dog  will  bite  him  if  he  pulls  his  tail !) 

Thou  human  humming  bee,  extracting  honey 
From  every  blossom  in  the  world  that  blows. 

Singing  in  youth's  Elysium  ever  sunny, 
(Another  tumble  !     That's  his  precious  nose  !) 
Thy  father's  pride  and  hope  ! 
(He'll  break  that  mirror  with  that  skipping  rope  !) 
With  pure  heart  newly  stamped  from  nature's  mint, 
(Where  did  he  learn  that  squint  ?) 


Thou  young  domestic  dove  ! 

(He'll  have  that  ring  off  with  another  shove,) 

Dear  nursling  of  the  hymeneal  nest ! 

(Are  these  torn  clothes  his  best  ?) 

Little  epitome  of  man  ! 

(He'll  climb  upon  the  table,  that's  his  plan,) 

Touched  with  the  beauteous  tints  of  dawning  life, 

(He's  got  a  knife  !) 

Thou  enviable  being ! 

No  storms,  no  clouds  in  thy  blue  sky  foreseeing, 

Play  on,  play  on, 

My  elfin  John  ! 
Toss  the  light  ball,  bestride  the  stick, 
(I  knew  so  many  cakes  would  make  him  sick  !) 

With  fancies  buoyant  as  the  thistle-down, 
Prompting  the  face  grotesque,  and  antic  brisk, 
With  many  a  Iamb-like  frisk  ! 

(He's  got  the  scissors  snipping  at  your  gov.-n  !) 
Thou  pretty  opening  rose  ! 

(Go  to  your  mother,  child,  and  wipe  your  nose  !) 
Balmy  and  breathing  music  like  the  south, 
(He  really  brings  my  heart  into  my  mouth !) 
Bold  as  the  hawk,  yet  gentle  as  the  dove  ; 
(I'll  tell  you  what,  my  love, 
I  cannot  write  unless  he's  sent  above.) 

Thcmas  Hood. 


THE  PUZZLED  DUTCHMAN. 

"Ma  broken-hearted  Deutscher, 

Vot's  villed  mit  crief  und  shame, 
I  dells  you  vot  der  drouple  ish  : 
I  doosn't  know  my  name. 

You  dinks  dis  fery  vunny,  eh  ? 

Ven  you  der  schtory  hear, 
You  vill  not  vonder  den  so  mooch, 

It  vas  so  schtrange  und  queer. 

Mine  moder  had  dwo  leedle  twins  ; 

Dey  vas  me  und  mine  broder : 
Ve  lookt  so  fery  mooch  alike. 

No  von  knew  vich  vrom  toder. 

Von  off"  der  poys  vas  "  Yawcob," 
Und  "  Hans  "  der  oder's  name  : 

But  den  it  made  no  tifferent : 
Ve  both  got  called  der  same. 

Veil !  von  off  us  got  tead — 

Yaw,  Mynheer,  dot  ish  so! 
But  vedder  Hans  or  Yawcob, 

Mine  moder  she  don'd  know. 

Und  so  I  am  in  drouples  : 

I  gan't  kit  droo  mine  hed 
Vedder  I'm  Hans  vot's  lifing, 

Or  Yawcob  vot  is  tead  ! 

Charles  F.  Adams. 


436 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


THE   DJINNS. 

Djinns  is  a  name  applied  to  genii,  angels,  or  demons,  supposed 
to  have  transparent  bodies,  with  the  power  of  assuming  rarious 
forms. 

'OWN,  tower, 
Shore,  deep, 
Where  lower, 
Clouds  steep ; 

Waves  gray 
Where  play 
Winds  gay — 
All  asleep. 
Hark  a  sound. 
Far  and  slight, 
Breathes  around 
On  the  night — 
High  and  higher, 
Nigh  and  nigher, 
Like  a  fire 
Roaring  bright. 
Now  on  it  is  sweeping 
With  rattling  beat 
Like  dwarf  imp  leaping 
In  gallop  fleet ; 
He  flies,  he  prances. 
In  frolic  fancies — 
On  wave  crest  dances 
With  pattering  feet. 
Hark,  the  rising  swell, 
With  each  nearer  burst ! 
Like  the  toll  of  bell 
Of  a  convent  cursed  ; 
Like  the  billowy  roar 
On  a  storm-lashed  shore — 
Now  hushed,  now  once  more 
Maddening  to  its  worst. 
Oh  God  !  the  deadly  sound 
Of  the  djinns'  fearful  cry ! 
Quy:k,  'neath  the  spiral  round 
Of  the  deep  staircase,  fly  ! 
See,  our  lamplight  fade  ! 
And  of  the  balustrade 
Mounts,  mounts  the  circling  shade 
Up  to  the  ceiling  high  ! 
*Tis  the  djinns'  wild  streaming  swarm 
Whistling  in  their  tempest  flight ; 
Snap  the  tall  yews  'neath  the  storm. 
Like  a  pine- flame  crackling  bright ; 
Swift  and  heavy,  low,  their  crowd 
Through  the  heavens  rushing  loud ! — 
Like  a  lurid  tliunder  cloud 
With  its  hold  of  fiery  night ! 
Ha !  they  are  on  us,  close  without ! 
Shut  tight  the  shelter  where  we  lie ! 
With  hideous  din  the  monster  rout, 
Dragon  and  vampire,  fill  the  sky  ! 
The  loosened  raft;er  overhead 
Trembles  and  bends  like  quivering  reed  j 


Shakes  the  old  door  with  shuddering  dread, 
As  from  its  rusty  hinge  'twould  fly  ! 
Oh  prophet !  if  thy  hand  but  now 
Save  from  these  foul  and  hellish  things, 
A  pilgrim  at  thy  shrine  I'll  bow, 
Laden  with  pious  offerings. 
Bid  their  hot  breath  its  fiery  rain 
Stream  on  my  faithful  door  in  vain. 
Vainly  upon  my  blackened  pane 
Grate  the  fierce  claws  of  their  dark  wings  ! 
They  have  passed  ! — and  their  wild  legion 
Cease  to  thunder  at  my  door  ; 
Fleeting  through  night's  rayless  region. 
Hither  they  return  no  more. 
Clanking  chains  and  sounds  of  woe 
Fill  the  forests  as  they  go  ; 
And  the  tall  oaks  cower  low. 
Bent  their  flaming  flight  before. 
On  !  on  !  the  storm  of  wings 
Bears  far  the  fiery  fear. 
Till  scarce  the  breeze  now  brings 
Dim  murmurings  to  the  ear  ; 
Like  locusts  humming  hail, 
Or  thrash  of  tiny  flail 
Plied  by  the  pattering  hail 
On  some  old  roof-tree  near. 
Fainter  now  are  borne 
Fitful  murmurings  still 
As,  when  Arab  horn 
Swells  its  magic  peal. 
Shoreward  o'er  the  deep 
Fairy  voices  sweep. 
And  the  infant's  sleep 
Golden  visions  fill. 
Each  deadly  djinn. 
Dark  child  of  fright. 
Of  death  and  sin. 
Speeds  the  wild  flight. 
Hark,  the  dull  moan  ! 
Like  the  deep  tone 
Of  ocean's  groan. 
Afar  by  night ! 

More  and  more 
Fades  it  now. 
As  on  shore 
Ripples  flow — 
As  the  plaint. 
Far  and  faint, 
Of  a  saint. 
Murmured  low. 
Hark !  hist  I 
Around 
I  list  ! 

The  bounds 
Of  space 
All  trace 
Efface 
Of  sound. 

Victor  Hugo. 


POETICAL  CURIOSITIES. 


437 


THE  IRISH  ECLIPSE. 

'  N  Watherford,  wanst,  lived  Profissor  MacShane, 
The  foinest  aslhronomer  iver  was  sane  ; 
For  long  before  noight,  wid  the  scoience  he 
knew, 

Wheriver  wan  shtar  was,  sure  he  could  see  two 

Quoite  plain, 
Could  Profissor  MacShane. 

More  power  to  him !  iv'ry  claare  noight  as  would 

pass. 
He'd  sit  by  the  windy,  a-showing  his  glass  ; 
A  poke  at  the  dipper,  that  plaised  him  the  laist, 
But  a  punch  in  the  milky  way  suited  his  taste — 

Small  blame 
To  his  sowl  for  that  same  ! 

Now  wan  toime  in  Watherford,  not  long  ago, 
They  had  what  the  loike  was  not  haard  of,  I  know, 
Since  Erin  was  undher  ould  Brian  Borrhoime  : 
The  sun  was  ayclipsed  for  three  days  at  wan  toime  ! 

It's  thrue 
As  I  tell  it  to  you. 

'Twas  sunroise  long  gone,  yet  the  sun  never  rose. 
And  iv'ry    wan    axed,  "  What's  the  matther,  God 

knows?" 
The  next  day,  and  next,  was  the  very  same  way  ; 
The  noight  was  so  long  it  was  lasting  all  day, 

As  black 
As  the  coat  on  yer  back. 

The  paiple  wint  hunting  Profissor  MacShane, 
To  thry  if  he'd  know  what  this  wondher  could  mane; 
He  answered  them  back :  "  Is  that  so  ?  Are  ye  there  ? 
'Tis  a  lot  of  most  iligant  gommachs  ye  air, 

To  ax 
For  the  plainest  of  facts  ! 

"  Ye're  part  of  an  impoire,  yez  mustn't  forget. 
Upon  which  the  sun's  niver  able  to  set ; 
Thin  why  will  it  give  yer  impoire  a  surproise 
If  wanst,  for  a  change,  he  refuses  to  roise  ?' ' 

Siz  he, 
**  That  is  aizy  to  see  !" 

Irwin  Russell. 


a 


MRS.  LOFTY  AND  I. 

RS.  LOFTY  keeps  a  carriage. 

So  do  I ; 
She  has  dapple  grays  to  draw  it, 

None  have  I ; 
She's  no  prouder  with  her  coachman 

Than  am  I 
With  my  blue-eyed  laughing  baby 

Trundling  by ; 
I  hide  his  face,  lest  she  should  see 
The  cherub  boy,  and  envy  me. 


H  jr  fine  husband  has  white  fingers, 

Mine  has  not : 
He  could  give  his  bride  a  palace. 

Mine  a  cot ; 
Her's  comes  beneath  the  star-light, 

Ne'er  cares  she : 
Mine  comes  in  the  purple  twilight, 

Kisses  me. 
And  prays  that  He  who  turns  life's  sands 
Will  hold  his  loved  ones  in  His  hands. 

Mrs.  Lofty  has  her  jewels. 

So  have  I ; 
She  wears  hers  upon  her  bosom, 

Inside  I ; 
She  will  leave  her's  at  death's  portals. 

By  and  by : 
I  shall  bear  the  treasure  with  me, 

When  I  die ; 
For  I  have  love,  and  she  has  gold  ; 
She  counts  her  wealth,  mine  can't  be  told. 

She  has  those  that  love  her  station, 

None  have  I ; 
But  I've  one  true  heart  beside  me, 

Glad  am  I ; 
I'd  not  change  it  for  a  kingdom, 

No,  not  I ; 
God  will  weigh  it  in  his  balance. 

By  and  by ; 
And  then  the  difference  't  will  define 
'Twixt  Mrs.  Lofty's  wealth  and  mine. 


THE  GOUTY  MERCHANT  AND  THE 
STRANGER. 

N  Brocd  street  buildings  (on  a  winter  night), 
Snug  by  his  parlor  fire,  a  gouty  wight 
Sat  all  alone,  with  one  hand  rubbing 
His  feet  rolled  up  in  fleecy  hose, 
With  t'other  he'd  beneath  his  nose 
The  "  Public  Ledger,"  jn  whose  columns  grubbing, 

He  noted  all  the  sales  of  hops. 

Ships,  shops,  and  slops  ; 
Gum,  galls,  and  groceries  ;  ginger,  gin. 
Tar,  tallow,  tumeric,  turpentine,  and  tin  ; 
When  lo  !  a  decent  personage  in  black, 
Entered  and  most  politely  said — 

"  Your  footman,  sir,  has  gone  his  nightly  track 

To  the  King's  Head, 
And  left  your  door  ajar,  which  I 
Observed  in  passing  by  ; 

And  thought  it  neighborly  to  give  you  notice." 
"  Ten  thousand  thanks  I"  the  gouty  man  replied  ; 
"  You  see,  good  sir,  how  to  my  chair  I'm  tied  ; — 
Ten  thousand  thanks  how  very  few  do  get, 
In  time  of  danger. 
Such  kind  attention  from  a  stranger  ! 


438 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


Assuredly,  that  fellow's  throat  is 
Doomed  to  a  final  drop  at  Newgate; 
He  knows,  too,  (the  unconscionable  elf), 
That  there's  no  soul  at  home  except  myself" 

"  Indeed,"  replied  the  stranger,  (looking  grave,) 

"  Then  he's  a  double  knave  : 
He  knows  that  rogues  and  thitves  by  scores 
Nigiitly  beset  unguarded  doors ; 
And  see,  how  easily  might  one 

Of  these  domestic  foes, 

Even  beneath  your  very  nose. 
Perform  his  knavish  tricks  : 
Enter  your  room  as  I  have  done. 
Blow  out  your  candles — thus — and  thus — 
Pocket  your  silver  candlesticks  ; 

And— walk  off— thus"— 
So  said,  so  done  ;  he  made  no  more  remark, 

Nor  waited  for  replies, 

But  marched  off  with  his  prize. 
Leaving  the  gouty  merchant  in  the  dark. 

Horace  Smith, 


BLIND  MEN  AND  THE  ELEPHANT. 

'  T  was  six  men  of  Indostan 

To  learning  much  inclined, 
Who  went  to  see  the  elephant 

(Though  all  of  them  were  blind,) 
That  each  by  observation 
Might  satisfy  his  mind. 

The  First  approached  the  elephant, 

And,  happening  to  fall 
Against  his  broad  and  sturdy  side, 

At  once  began  to  bawl : 
"  God  bless  me  !  but  the  elephant 

Is  very  like  a  wall  !  " 

The  Second,  feeling  of  the  tusk. 
Cried  :  "  Ho!  what  have  we  here 

So  very  round  and  smooth  and  sharp  ? 
To  me  'tis  mighty  clear 

This  wonder  of  an  elephant 
Is  very  like  a  spear !  " 

The  Third  approached  the  animal, 

And,  happening  to  take 
The  squirming  trunk  within  his  hands. 

Thus  boldly  up  and  spake  : 
"I  see,"  quoth  he,  "the  elephant 

Is  very  like  a  snake  !  " 

The  Fourth  reached  out  his  eager  hand. 

And  felt  about  the  knee , 
*'  What  most  this  wondrous  beast  is  like 

Is  mighty  plain,"  quoth  he  ; 
"Tis  clear  enough  the  elephant 

Is  very  like  a  tree  !  " 

The  Fifth,  who  chanced  to  touch  the  ear, 
Said  :  "  E'en  the  blindest  man 


Can  tell  what  this  resembles  most ; 

Deny  the  fact  who  can. 
This  marvel  of  an  elephant 

Is  very  like  a  fan  !  " 

The  Sixth  no  sooner  had  begun 

About  the  beast  to  grope. 
Than,  seizing  on  the  swinging  tail 

That  fell  within  his  scojje, 
"  I  see,"  quoth  he,  "  the  elephant 

Is  very  like  a  rope  !  " 

And  so  these  men  of  Indostan 

Disputed  loud  and  long, 
Each  in  his  own  opinion 

Exceeding  stiff  and  strong. 
Though  each  was  partly  in  the  right, 

And  all  were  in  the  wrong  ! 

MORAL. 

So,  oft  in  theologic  wars 

The  disputants,  I  ween. 
Rail  on  in  utter  ignorance 

Of  what  each  other  mean, 
And  prate  about  an  elephant 

Not  one  of  them  has  seen  ! 

John  Godfrey  Saxe, 


THE  HOUSEKEEPER'S  SOLILOQUY. 

'ERE'S  a  big  washing  to  be  done — 
One  pair  of  hands  to  do  it — 
Sheets,  shirts  and  stockings,  coats  and  pants, 
How  will  I  e'er  get  through  it? 

Dinner  to  get  for  six  or  more. 

No  loaf  left  o'er  from  Sunday  ; 
And  baby  cross  as  he  can  live — 

He's  always  so  on  Monday. 

'Tis  time  the  meat  was  in  the  pot, 
The  bread  was  worked  for  baking, 

The  clothes  were  taken  from  the  boil — 
Oh  dear !  the  baby's  waking  ! 

Hush,  baby  dear  !  there,  hush-sh-sh  ! 

I  wish  h'd  sleep  a  little. 
Till  I  could  run  and  get  some  wood. 

To  hurry  up  the  kettle. 

Oh  dear  !  oh  dear !  if  P comes  home. 

And  finds  things  in  this  pother, 
He'll  just  begin  and  tell  me  all 

About  his  tidy  mother ! 

How  nice  her  kitchen  used  to  be, 

Her  dinner  always  ready 
Exactly  when  the  noon-bell  rang — 

Hush,  hush,  dear  little  Freddy  ! 

And  then  will  come  some  hcisty  words, 
Right  out  before  I'm  thinking — 


POETICAL  CURIOSITIES. 


43i* 


They  say  that  hasty  words  from  wives 
Set  sober  men  to  drinking. 

Now  is  not  that  a  great  idea, 
Tiiat  men  should  take  to  sinning, 

Because  a  weary,  half-sick  wife. 
Can't  always  smile  so  winning? 

When  I  was  young  I  used  to  earn 

My  living  without  trouble. 
Had  clothes  and  pocket  money,  too, 

And  hours  of  leisure  double. 
I  never  dreamed  of  such  a  fate, 
When  I,  a-lass  !  was  courted — 
Wife,  mother,  nurse,  seamstress,  cook,  housekeeper, 
chambermaid,    laundress,    dairywoman,   and    scrub 
generally,  doing  the  work  of  six, 

For  the  sake  of  being  supported ! 

Mrs.  F.  D.  Gage. 


COLLUSION  BETWEEN  A  ALEGAITER  AND 
A  WATER-SNAIK. 

'HERE  is  a  niland  on  a  river  lying. 

Which  runs  into  Gautimaly,  a  warm  country, 
Lying  near  the  Tropicks,  covered  with  sand ; 
Hear  and  their  a  symptum  of  a  Wilow, 
Hanging  of  its  umberagious  limbs  &  branches 
Over  the  clear  streme  meandering  far  below. 
This  was  the  home  of  the  now  silent  Alegaiter, 
When  not  in  his  other  element  confine'd  : 
Here  he  wood  set  upon  his  eggs  asleep 
With  I  ey  observant  of  flis  and  other  passing 
Objects :  a  while  it  kept  a  going  on  so  : 
Fereles  of  danger  was  the  happy  Alegaiter ! 
But  a  las !  in  a  nevil  our  he  was  fourced  to 
Wake  !  that  dreme  of  Blis  was  two  sweet  for  him. 
I  morning  the  sun  arose  with  unusool  splender 
Whitch  allso  did  our  Alegaiter,  coming  from  the  water. 
His  scails  a  flinging  of  the  rais  of  the  son  back. 
To  the  fountain-head  which  tha  originly  sprung  from. 
But  having  not  had  nothing  to  eat  for  some  time,  he 
Was  slepy  and  gap'd,  in  a  short  time,  widely. 
Unfoalding  soon  a  welth  of  perl-white  teth, 
The  rais  of  the  son  soon  shet  his  sinister  ey 
Because  of  their  mutool  splendor  and  warmth. 
The  evil  Our  (which  I  sed)  was  now  come  ; 
Evidently  a  good  chans  for  a  water-snaik 
Of  the  large  specie,  which  soon  appeared 
Into  the  horison,  near  the  bank  where  reposed 
Calmly  in  slepe  the  Alegaiter  before  spoken  of. 
About  60  feet  was  his  Length  (not  the  'gaiter) 
And  he  was  aperiently  a  well-proportioned  snaik. 
When  he  was  all  ashore  he  glared  upon 
The  iland  with  approval,  but  was  soon 
'  Astonished  with  the  view  and  lost  to  wonder '  (from 

Wats) 
(For  jest  then  he  began  to  see  the  Alegaiter) 
Being  a  nateral  enemy  of  his'n,  he  worked  hisself 
Into  a  fury,  also  a  ni  position. 


Before  the  Alegaiter  well  could  ope 

His  eye  (in  other  words  perceive  his  danger) 

The  Snaik  had  enveloped  his  body  just  19 

Times  with  'foalds  voluminous  and  vast'  (from  Milton) 

And  had  tore  off  several  scails  in  the  confusion. 

Besides  squeazing  him  awfully  into  his  stomoc. 

Just  then,  by  a  fortinate  turn  in  his  affairs. 

He  ceazed  into  his  mouth  the  careless  tale 

Of  the  unreflecting  water  snaik  !  Grown  desperate 

He,  finding  that  his  tale  was  fast  squesed 

Terrible  while  they  roaled  all  over  the  iland. 

It  was  a  well-conduckted  Affair  ;  no  noise 
Disturbed  the  harmony  of  the  seen,  ecsept 
Onct  when  a  Willow  was  snaped  into  by  the  roaling. 
Eeach  of  the  combatence  hadn't  a  minit  for  holering. 
So  the  conflick  was  naterally  tremenjous  ! 
But  soon  by  grate  force  the  tail  was  bit  complete- 
Ly  of;  but  the  eggzeration  was  too  much 
For  his  delicate  Conslitootion ;   he  felt  a  compres- 
sion 
Onto  his  chest  and  generally  over  his  body  ; 
When  he  ecspressed  his  breathing,  it  was  with 
Grate  difficulty  that  he  felt  inspired,  again  onct  more. 
Of  course  this  slate  must  suffer  a  revolootion. 
So  the  alegaiter  give  but  one  yel,  and  egspired. 
The  water-snaik  realed  hisself  off,  &  survay'd 
For  say  10  minits,  the  condition  of 
His  fo  :  then  wondering  what  made  his  tail  hurt, 
He  slowly  went  off  for  to  cool. 

J.  W.  Morris. 

A  RECEIPT   FOR   COURTSHIP. 

*WO  or  three  dears,  and  two  or  three  sweets  ; 
Two  or  three  balls,  and  two  or  three  treats  ; 
Two  or  three  serenades,  given  as  a  lure  ; 
"f"       Two  or  three  oaths  how  much  they  endure  ; 
Two  or  three  messages  sent  in  one  day  ; 
Two  or  three  times  led  out  from  the  play ; 
Two  or  three  soft  speeches  made  by  the  way  ; 
Two  or  three  tickets  for  two  or  three  times  ; 
Two  or  three  love-letters  writ  all  in  rhymes  ; 
Two  or  three  months  keeping  strict  to  these  rules 
Can  never  fail  making  a  couple  of  fools. 

Jonathan  Swift. 


llJ' 


A  FORGETFUL  MAN. 

HEN  Topewell  thought  fit  from  the  world  to 
retreat. 
As  full  of  champagne  as  an  egg's  full  of 
meat. 
He  waked  in  the  boat,  and  to  Charon  he  said. 
He  would  be  rowed  back,  for  he  was  not  yet  dead. 
"Trim  the  boat,  and  sit  quiet,"  stern  Charon  replied  : 
"  You  may  have  forgot ;  you  were  drunk  when  you 
die4" 

Matthew  Priotv. 


440 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


© 


VERY  DEAF. 

EAF,  giddy,  helpless,  left  alone, 
To  all  my  friends  a  burthen  grown  : 
No  more  I  hear  my  church's  bell : 
Than  if  it  rang  out  for  my  knell : 
At  thunder  now  no  more  I  start 
Than  at  the  rumbling  of  a  cart : 
Nay,  what's  incredible,  alack ! 
I  hardly  hear  a  woman's  clack. 

Jonathan  Swift. 

AN  ORIGINAL  EPITAPH. 


'ERE  lies  fast  asleep — awake  me  who  can — 
That  medley  of  passions  and  follies,  a  Man, 
Who  sometimes  loved  license,   and    some- 
times restraint, 
Too  much  of  the  sinner,  too  little  of  the  saint ; 
From  quarter  to  quarter  I  shifted  my  tack  ; 
'Gainst  the  evils  of  life  a  most  notable  quack  ; 
But,  alas  !   I  soon  found  the  defects  of  my  skill, 
And  my  nostrums  in  practice  proved  treacherous 

still ; 
From  life's  certain  ills  'twas  in  vain  to  seek  ease, 
The  remedy  oft  proved  another  disease  ; 
What  in  rapture  began  often  ended  in  sorrow, 
And  the  pleasure  to-day  brought  reflection  to-mor- 
row ; 
When  each  action  was  o'er,  and  its  errors  were  seen, 
Then  I  viewed  with  surprise  the  strange  thing  I  had 

been ; 
My  body  and  mind  were  so  oddly  contrived, 
That  at  each  other's  failing  both  parties  connived; 
Imprudence  of  mind  brought  on  sickness  and  pain, 
And  body  diseased  paid  the  debt  back  again  ; 
Thus  coupled  together  life's  journey  they  passed, 
Till  they  wrangled  and  jangled,  and  parted  at  last ; 
Thus  tired  and  weary,  I've  finished  my  course, 
And  glad  it  is  bed-time,  and  things  are  no  worse. 


CASE  IN  THE  CONSTITUTIONAL  COURT. 


FARMER,  as  records  report, 
Most  hugely  discontented, 
His  vicar  at  the  Bishop's  Court 
For  gross  neglect  presented. 

"  Our  former  priest,  my  lord,"  he  said, 
"  Each  Sunday  in  the  year  round. 
Some  Greek  in  his  discourses  read, 
And  charming  was  the  sound  ! 

"Not  such  our  present  parson's  phrase, 
No  Greek  does  he  apply ; 
But  says  in  English  all  he  says, 
As  you  might  speak,  or  I. 

"  And  yet  for  this  so  simple  style, 
He  claims  each  tithe  and  due  ; 


Pigs,  pippins,  poultry  all  the  while, 
And  Easter  offerings  too !" 

"You're  skilled  in  languages,  I  g^ess," 
Th'  amazed  diocesan  cried  ; 

"  I  know  no  language,  more  nor  less," 
The  surly  clown  replied  : 

"  But  Greek,  I've  heard  the  learned  say, 
Surpasses  all  the  rest ; 
And  since  'tis  for  the  best  we  pay, 
We  ought  to  have  the  best." 


A  PARSON'S  FATE. 

T  blew  a  hard  storm,  and  in  utmost  confusion, 
The  sailors  all  hurried  to  get  absolution  ; 
Which  done,  and  the  weight  of  the  sins  they  con- 
fessed 
Transferred,  as  they  thought,  from  themselves  to  the 

priest. 
To  lighten  the  ship,  and  conclude  their  devotion. 
They  tossed  the  poor  parson  souse  into  the  ocean. 


THE  BALD-PATED  WELSHMAN  AND  THE 
FLY. 

Q  SQUIRE  of  Wales,  whose  blood  ran  higher 
Than  that  of  any  other  squire, 
Hasty  and  hot ;  whose  peevish  honor 
Revenged  each  slight  was  put  upon  her ; 
Upon  a  mountain's  top  one  day, 
Exposed  to  Sol's  meridian  ray. 
He  fumed,  he  raved,  he  cursed,  he  swore, 
Exhaled  a  sea  at  every  pore  ; 
At  last,  such  insults  to  evade, 
Sought  the  next  tree's  protecting  shade ; 
Where  as  he  lay  dissolved  in  sweat, 
And  wiped  off  many  a  rivulet, 
Off  in  a  pet  the  beaver  flies, 
And  flaxen  wig,  time's  best  disguise, 
By  which  folks  of  maturer  ages 
Vie  with  smooth  beaux,  and  ladies'  pages  ; 
Though  'twas  a  secret  rarely  known. 
Ill-natured  age  had  cropped  his  crown, 
Grubbed  all  the  covert  up,  and  now 
A  large,  smooth  plain  extends  his  brow. 
Thus  as  he  lay  with  numskull  bare, 
And  courted  the  refreshing  air, 
New  persecutions  still  appear  ; 
A  noisy  fly  offends  his  ear. 
Alas  !  what  man  of  parts  and  sense 
Could  bear  such  vile  impertinence  ? 
Yet,  so  discourteous  is  our  fate. 
Fools  always  buzz  about  the  great. 
This  insect  now,  whose  active  spite 
Teased  him  with  never-ceasing  bite, 
With  so  much  judgment  played  his  part. 
He  had  him  both  in  tierce  and  carte : 


POETICAL  CURIOSITIES. 


441 


In  vain  with  open  hands  he  tries 

To  guard  his  ears,  his  nose  his  eyes ; 

For  now  at  last,  familiar  grown, 

He  perched  upon  his  worship's  crown, 

With  teeth  and  claws  his  skin  he  tore, 

And  stuffed  himself  with  human  gore  : 

But  now  what  rhetoric  could  assuage 

The  furious  squire,  staik  mad  with  rage? 

Impatient  at  the  foul  disgrace 

From  insect  of  so  mean  a  race, 

And  plotting  vengeance  on  his  foe. 

With  double  fist  he  aims  a  blow. 

The  nimble  fly  escaped  by  flight, 

And  skipped  from  this  unequal  fight. 

Th'  impending  stroke  with  all  its  weight 

Fell  on  his  own  beloved  pate. 

Thus  much  he  gained  by  this  adventurous  deed  ; 

He  fouled  his  fingers  and  he  broke  his  head. 


Let  senates  hence  learn  to  preserve  their  state. 
And  scorn  the  fool  below  their  grave  debate, 
Who  by  the  unequal  strife  grows  popular  and  great. 
Let  hhn  buzz  on,  with  senseless  rant  defy 
The  wise,  the  good,  yet  still  't  is  but  a  fly. 
With  puny  foes  the  toil's  not  worth  the  cost ; 
Where  nothing  can  be  gained,  much  may  be  lost : 
Let  cranes  and  pigmies  in  mock-war  engage, 
A  prey  beneath  the  gen'rous  eagle's  rage. 
True  honor  o'er  the  clouds  sublimely  wings  ; 
Young  Ammon  scorns  to  run  with  less  than  kings. 
William  Somerville. 


EPITAPH  ON  A  MISER. 

jENEATH  this  verdant  hillock  lies 
Demar,  the  wealthy  and  the  wise. 
His  heirs,  that  he  might  safely  rest, 
Have  put  his  carcass  in  a  chest ; 

The  very  chest  in  which,  they  say, 

His  other  self,  his  money,  lay. 

And  if  his  heirs  continue  kind 

To  that  dear  self  he  left  behind, 

I  dare  believe  that  four  in  five 

Will  think  his  better  half  alive. 

Jonathan  Swift. 

RIDDLES. 


ON   A   PEN. 

N  youth  exalted  high  in  air, 
Or  bathing  in  the  waters  fair. 
Nature  to  form  me  took  delight. 
And  clad  my  body  all  in  white. 
My  person  tall,  and  slender  waist, 
On  either  side  with  fringes  graced  ; 
Till  me  that  tyrant  man  espied, 
And  dragged  me  from  my  mother's  side. 


No  wonder  now  I  look  so  thin  ; 

The  tyrant  stripped  me  to  the  skin  ; 

My  skin  he  flayed,  my  hair  he  cropped  ; 

At  head  and  foot  my  body  lopped ; 

And  then,  with  heart  more  hard  than  stone, 

He  picked  my  marrow  from  the  bone. 

To  vex  me  more,  he  took  a  freak 

To  slit  my  tongue,  and  make  me  speak  : 

But  that  which  wonderful  appears, 

I  speak  to  eyes,  and  not  to  ears. 

He  oft  employs  me  in  disguise. 

And  makes  me  tell  a  thousand  lies  : 

To  me  he  chiefly  gives  in  trust 

To  please  his  malice  or  his  lust : 

From  me  no  secret  he  can  hide ; 

I  see  his  vanity  and  pride  : 

And  my  delight  is  to  expose 

His  follies  to  his  greatest  foes. 

All  languages  I  can  command, 
Yet  not  a  word  I  understand. 
Without  my  aid,  the  best  divine 
In  learning  would  not  know  a  line  ; 
The  lawyer  must  forget  his  pleading ; 
The  scholar  could  not  show  his  reading. 

Nay,  man,  my  master,  is  my  slave  ; 
I  give  command  to  kill  or  save  ; 
Can  grant  ten  thousand  pounds  a  year, 
And  make  a  beggar's  brat  a  peer. 

But  while  I  thus  my  life  relate, 
I  only  hasten  on  my  fate. 
My  tongue  is  black,  my  mouth  is  furred, 
I  hardly  now  can  force  a  word. 
I  die  unpitied  and  forgot. 
And  on  some  dunghill  left  to  rot. 

ON   GOLD. 

All-ruling  tyrant  of  the  earth, 
To  vilest  slaves  I  owe  my  birth. 
How  is  the  greatest  monarch  blessed, 
When  in  my  gaudy  livery  dressed  ! 
No  haughty  nymph  has  power  to  run 
From  me  or  my  embraces  shun. 
Stabbed  lo  the  heart,  condemned  to  flame, 
My  constancy  is  still  the  same. 
The  favorite  messenger  of  Jove, 
The  Lemnian  god,  consulting,  strove 
To  make  me  glorious  to  the  sight 
Of  mortals,  and  the  god's  delight 
Soon  would  thair  altars'  flame  expire 
If  I  refused  to  lend  them  fire. 

on  THE   FIVE  SENSES. 

All  of  us  in  one  you'll  find. 
Brethren  of  a  wondrous  kind  ; 
Yet,  among  us  all,  no  brother 
Knows  one  tittle  of  the  other. 
We  in  frequent  councils  are, 
And  our  marks  of  things  declare ; 
Where,  to  us  unknown,  a  clerk 
Sits,  and  takes  them  in  the  dark. 


442 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


He's  the  register  of  all 
In  our  ken,  both  great  and  small ; 
By  us  forms  his  laws  and  rules ; 
He's  our  master,  we  his  tools  ; 
Yet  we  can,  with  greatest  ease, 
Turn  and  wind  him  where  we  please. 

One  of  us  alone  can  sleep, 
Yet  no  watch  the  rest  will  keep  ; 
But,  the  moment  that  he  closes, 
Every  brother  else  reposes. 

If  wine's  bought,  or  victuals  dressed, 
One  enjoys  them  for  the  rest. 

Pierce  us  all  with  wounding  steel. 
One  for  all  of  us  will  feel. 

Though  ten  thousand  cannons  roar. 
Add  to  them  ten  thousand  more. 
Yet  but  one  of  us  is  found 
Who  regards  the  dreadful  sound. 

Do  what  is  not  fit  to  teU, 
There's  but  one  of  us  can  smell. 


Ever  eating,  never  cloying, 
All  devouring,  all  destroying  ; 
Never  ending  full  repast. 
Till  I  eat  the  world  at  last. 

ON  THE  VOWELS. 

We  are  little  airy  creatures. 
All  of  different  voice  and  features  : 
One  of  us  in  glass  is  set. 
One  of  us  you'll  find  in  jet ; 
T'  other  you  may  see  in  tin,  • 

And  the  fourth  a  box  within  ; 
If  the  fifth  you  should  pursue, 
It  can  never  fly  from  you. 

Jonathan  Swift. 

FRENCH  COOKING. 

'O  make  a  plum -pudding  a  French  count  once 
took 
An  authentic  receipt  from  an  English  lord's 
■^  cook : 

Mix  suet,  milk,  eggs,  sugar,  meal,  fruit  and  spice. 
Of  sucii  numbers,  such  measure,  and  weight,  and  such 

price ; 
Drop  a  spoonful  of  brandy  to  quicken  the  mess. 
And  boil  it  for  so  many  hours,  more  or  less. 
These  directions  were  tried,  but,  when  tried,  had  no 

good  in, 
'Twas  all  wash,  and  all  squash,  but  'twas  not  English 

pudding ; 
And  monsieur,  in  a  pet,  sent  a  second  request 
For  the  cook  that  prescribed  to  assist  when  'twas 

dressed. 
Who,  of  course,  to  comply  with  his  honor's  beseeching. 
Like  an   old  cook  of  Colbrook,  marched  into  the 
kitchen. 


The  French  cooks,  when  they  saw  him,  talked  loud 
and  talked  long, 

They  were  sure  all  was  right,  he  could  find  nothing 
wrong ; 

Till,  just  as  the  mixture  was  raised  to  the  pot, 

"Hold  your  hands!  hold  your  hands!"  screamed 
astonished  John  Trot : 

"  Don't  you  see  you  want  one  thing,  like  fools  as  you 
are?" 

"Vone  ting,  Sare!  Vat  ting,  Sare?" — "A  pudding- 
cloth,  Sare !" 


SAVED  BY  HIS  WIT. 

A  sailor,  having  been  sentenced  to  the  cal-o*-nine  tails,  when 
tied  for  punishment,  spoke  the  following  lines  to  his  commander, 
who  had  an  aversion  to  a  cat. 

I Y  your  honor's  command,  an  example  I  stand 
Of  your  justice  to  all  the  ship's  crew  ; 
I  am  hampyered  and  stripped,  and,   if  I  am 
whipped, 
'Tis  no  more  than  I  own  is  my  due. 

In  this  scurvy  condition,  I  humbly  petition 

To  offer  some  lines  to  your  eye  : 
Merry  Tom  by  such  trash  once  avoided  the  lash. 

And,  if  fate  and  you  please,  so  may  I. 

There  is  nothing  you  hate,  I'm  informed,  like  a  cat ; 

Why,  your  honor's  aversion  is  mine  : 
If  puss  then  with  one  tail  can  make  your  heart  fail, 

O  save  me  from  that  which  has  nine ! 

N.  B.    He  was  pardoned. 


THE    FRIEND   OF  HUMANITY  AND   THE 
KNIFE-GRINDER. 


R 


FRIEND   OF  HUMANITY. 

EEDY  knife-grinder  !  whither  are  you  going  ? 
Rough  is  the  road  ;  your  wheel  is  out  of 

order. 
Bleak  blows  the  blast ;— your  hat  has  got  a 

hole  in't ; 
So  have  your  breeches  ! 

Weary  knife-grinder !  little  think  the  proud  ones, 
Who  in  their  coaches  roll  along  the  turnpike-road. 
What  hard  work  't  is  crying  all  dav,  "  Knives  and 
Scissors  to  grind  O  !  " 

Tell  me  knife-grinder,  how  came  you  to  grind  knives? 
Did  some  rich  man  tyrannically  use  you  ? 
Was  it  the  squire  ?  or  parson  of  the  parish  ? 
Or  the  attorney? 

Was  it  the  squire  for  killing  of  his  game?  or 
Covetous  parson  for  his  tithes  distraining  ? 
Or  roguish  lawyer  made  you  lose  your  little 
All  in  a  lawsuit  ? 


POETICAL  CURIOSITIES. 


443 


(Have  yotl  not  read  the  Rights  of  Man,  by  Tom 

Paine  ?) 
Drops  of  compassion  tremble  on  my  eyeHds, 
Ready  to  fall  as  soon  as  you  have  told  your 
Pitiful  story. 


KNIFE-GRINDER. 


Story  !  God  bless  you  !  I  have  none  to  tell,  sir  ; 
Only,  last  night,  a-drinking  at  the  Chequers, 
This  poor  old  hat  and  breeches,  as  you  see,  were 
Torn  in  a  scuffle. 

Constables  came  up  for  to  take  me  into 
Custody  ;  they  took  me  before  the  justice  ; 
Justice  Oldmixon  put  me  in  the  parish-stocks 
For  a  vagrant. 

I  should  be  glad  to  drink  your  honor's  health  in 
A  pot  of  beer,  if  you  will  give  me  sixpence  ; 
But  for  my  part,  I  never  love  to  meddle 
With  politics,  sir. 

FRIEND  OF   HUMANITY. 

I  give  thee  sixpence  !  I  will  see  thee  dead  first — 
Wretch  !  whom  no  sense  of  wrong  can  rouse  to  ven- 
geance— 
Sordid,  unfeeling,  reprobate,  degraded, 
Spiritless  outcast ! 

[Kicks  the  knife-grinder,  overturns  his  wheel,  and 
exit  in  a  transport  of  republican  enthusiasm  and  uni- 
versal philanthropy. '\ 

George  Canning. 

DER  DRUMMER. 

HO  puts  oup  at  der  pest  hotel, 
Und  dakes  his  oysders  on  der  shell, 
Und  mit  der  frauleins  cuts  a  schwell  ? 
Der  drummer. 

Wh  )  vas  it  gomes  indo  mine  schtore, 
Drows  down  his  pundles  on  der  vloor, 
Und  nefer  schtops  to  shut  der  door  ? 
Der  drummer. 

Who  dakes  me  py  der  handt,  und  say, 
*'  Hans  Pfeiffer,  how  you  vas  to-day?" 
Und  goes  vor  peeseness  righdt  avay  ? 
Der  drummer. 

Who  shpreads  his  zamples  in  a  trice, 
Und  dells  me,  "  Look,  und  see  how  nice  ?" 
Und  says  I  gets  ''  der  bottom  price  ?" 
Der  drummer. 

Who  dells  how  sheap  der  goods  vas  bought, 
Mooch  less  as  vot  I  gould  imbort, 
But  lets  them  go  as  he  vas  "  short?" 
Der  drummer. 

Who  says  der  tings  vas  eggstra  vine — 
"  Vrom  Sharmany,  ubon  der  Rhine," — 
Und  sheats  me  den  dimes  oudt  off  nine  ? 
Der  drummer. 


Who  varrants  all  der  goods  to  suit 
Der  gustomers  ubon  his  route, 
Und  ven  dey  gomes  dey  vas  no  goot  ? 
Der  drummer. 

Who  gomes  aroundt  ven  I  been  oudt, 
Drinks  oup  mine  bier,  und  eats  mine  kraut, 
Und  kiss  Katrina  in  der  mout'  ? 
Der  drummer. 

Who,  ven  he  gomes  again  dis  vay, 
Vill  hear  vot  Pfeiffer  has  to  say, 
Und  mit  a  plack  eye  goes  avay  ? 
Der  drummer. 

Charles  F.  Adams. 


THE  BUTTERFLY'S  BALL 

eOME  take  up  your  hats,  and  away  let  us  haste 
To  the  Butterfly's  ball  and  the  Grasshopper's 
feast. 
The  trumpeter.  Gad-fly,  has  summoned  the 
crew, 
And  the  revels  are  now  only  waiting  for  you. 

So  said  little  Robert,  and,  pacing  along, 
His  merry  companions  came  forth  in  a  throng. 
And  on  the  smooth  grass,  by  the  side  of  a  wood, 
Beneath  a  broad  oak  that  for  ages  had  stood, 

Saw  the  children  of  earth,  and  the  tenants  of  air, 
For  an  evening's  amusement  together  repair. 
And  there  came  the  Beetle,  so  blind  and  so  black. 
Who  carried  the  Emmet,  his  friend,  on  his  back. 

And  there  was  the  Gnat,  and  the  Dragon-fly  too. 
With  all  their  relations,  green,  orange,  and  blue. 
And  there  came  the  Moth,  with  his  plumage  of  down, 
And  the  Hornet  in  jacket  of  yellow  and  brown  ; 

Who  with  him  the  Wasp,  his  companion,  did  bring, 
But  they  promised  that  evening  to  lay  by  their  sting. 
And  the  sly  little  Dormouse  crept  out  of  his  hole. 
And  brought  to  the  feast  his  blind  brother,  the  Mole. 

And  the  Snail,  with  his  horns  peeping  out  of  his  shell, 
Came  from  a  great  distance,  the  length  of  an  ell, 
A  mushroom  their  table,  and  on  it  was  laid 
A  water-dock  leaf,  which  a  table-cloth  made. 

The  viands  were  various,  to  each  of  their  taste, 
And  the  Bee  brought  her  honey  to  crown  the  repast. 
Then  close  on  his  haunches,  so  solemn  and  wise, 
The  Frog  from  a  comer  looked  up  to  the  skies. 

And  the  Squirrel,  well  pleased  such  diversions  to  see. 
Mounted  high  overhead,  and  looked  down  from  a  tree. 
Then  out  came  the  Spider,  with  finger  so  fine, 
To  show  his  dexterity  on  the  tight  line. 

From  one  branch  to  another,  his  cobwebs  he  slung. 
Then  quick  as  an  arrow  he  darted  along. 
But,  just  in  the  middle— Oh  !  shocking  to  tell — 
From  his  rope,  in  an  instant,  poor  harlequin  fell. 


444 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


Vet  he  touched  not  the  ground,  but  with  talons  out- 
spread, 
Hung  suspended  in  air,  at  the  end  of  a  thread. 
"Then  the  Grasshopper  came  with  a  jerk  and  a  spring, 
Very  long  was  his  leg,  though  but  short  was  his  wing  ; 

He  took  but  three  leaps,  and  was  soon  out  of  sight. 
Then  chirped  his  own  praises  the  rest  of  the  night. 
With  step  so  majestic  the  Snail  did  advance, 
And  promised  the  gazers  a  minuet  to  dance. 

But  they  all  laughed  so  loud  that  he  pulled  in  his  head, 
And  went  in  his  own  little  chamber  to  bed. 
Then,  as  evening  gave  way  to  the  shadows  of  night, 
Their  watchman,  the  Glow-worm,  came  out  with  a  light. 

Then  home  let  us  hasten,  while  yet  we  can  see. 
For  no  watchman  is  waiting  for  you  and  for  me. 
So  said  little  Robert,  and,  pacing  along, 
His  merry  companions  returned  in  a  throng. 

Mrs.  Henry  Roscoe. 


REPORT  OF  A  CASE,  NOT  TO  BE  FOUND 
IN  ANY  OF  THE  BOOKS. 


and 


eyes  a    strange    contest 


,ETWEEN    nose 
arose ; 
The  spectacles  set  them  unhappily  wrong  ; 
The  point  in  dispute  was,   as   all  the  world 
knows. 
To  which  the  said  spectacles  ought  to  belong. 

So  the  tongue  was  the  lawyer,  and  argued  the  cause 
With  a  great  deal  of  skill,  and  a  wig  full  of  learning  ; 

While  chief  baron  ear  sat  to  balance  the  laws. 
So  famed  for  his  talent  in  nicely  discerning. 

In  behalf  of  the  nose,  it  will  quickly  appear. 
And  your  lordship,  he  said,  will  undoubtedly  find, 

That  the  nose  has  had  spectacles  always  in  wear, 
Which  amounts  to  possession  time  out  of  mind. 

Then,  holding  the  spectacles  up  to  the  court — 

Your  lordship  observes  they  are  made  with  a  straddle 
As  wide  as  the  ridge  of  the  nose  is  ;  in  short, 

Designed  to  sit  close  to  it,  just  like  a  saddle- 
Again,  would  your  lordship  a  moment  suppose 

('Tis  a  case  that  has  happened,  and  may  be  again,) 
That  the  visage  or  countenance  had  not  a  nose, 

Pray  who  would  or  who  could  wear  spectacles  then  ? 

On  the  whole  it  appears,  and  my  argument  shows, 
With  a  reasoning  the  court  will  never  condemn, 

That  the  spectacles  plainly  were  made  for  the  nose, 
And  the  nose  was  as  plainly  intended  for  them. 

Then  shifting  his  side,  as  the  lawyer  knows  how, 
He  pleaded  again  in  behalf  of  the  eyes  ; 

But  what  were  the  arguments  few  people  know. 
For  the  world  did  not  think  they  were  equally  wise. 


So  his  lordship  decreed,  with  a  grave,  solemn  tone, 
Decisive  and  clear,  without  one  if  ox  but— 

That  whenever  the  nose  put  his  spectacles  on 
By  day-light  or  candle-light— eyes  should  be  shut. 

William  Cowper. 


GONE  WITH  A  HANDSOMER  MAN. 

John. 
'VE  worked  in  the  field  all  day,  a  plowin'  the 
"  stony  streak  ;" 
I've  scolded  my  team   till   I'm   hoarse  ;    I've 
tramped  till  my  legs  are  weak  ; 
I've  choked  a  dozen  swears,  (so's  not  to  tell  Jane 

fibs), 
When  the  plow-pint  struck  a  stone  and  the  handles 
punched  my  ribs. 

I've  put  my  team  in  the  barn,  and  rubbed  theirsweaty 

coats ; 
I've  fed  'em  a  heap  of  hay  and  half  a  bushel  of  oats  ; 
And  to  see  the  way  they  eat  makes  me  like  eatin' 

feel, 
And  Jane  wont  say  to-night  that  I  don't  make  out  a 

meal. 

Well  said  !  the  door  is  locked  !  but  here  she's  left  the 

key. 
Under  the  step,  in  a  place  known  only  to  her  and  me ; 
I  wonder  who's  dyin'  or  dead,  that  she's  hustled  off 

pell-mell ; 
But  here  on  the  table's  a  note,  probably  this  will  tell. 

Good  God !  my  wife  is  gone  !  my  wife  is  gone  astray ! 
The  letter  it  says,  "  Good-bye,  for  I'm  a  going  away  ; 
I've  lived  with  you  six  months,  John,  and  so  far  I've 

been  true ; 
But  I'm  going  away  to-day  with  a  handsomer  man  than 

you." 

A  han'somer  man  than  me  !    Why  that  ain't  much  to 

say; 
There's  han'somer  men  than  me  go  past  here  every 

day. 
There's  han'somer  men  than  me — I  ain't  of  the  han'- 

some  kind  ; 
But  a  loven'er  man  than  I  was,  I  guess  she'll  never 

find. 

Curse  her !  curse  her !  I  say,  and  give  my  curses 
wings ! 

May  the  words  of  love  I've  spoken  be  changed  to  scor- 
pion stings ! 

Oh,  she  filled  my  heart  with  joy,  she  emptied  my  heart 
of  doubt. 

And  now  with  the  scratch  of  a  pen,  she  lets  my  heart's 
blood  out ! 

Curse  her!  curse  her  !  say  I,  she'll  some  time  rue  this 

day; 
She'll  some  time  learn  that  hate  is  a  game  that  two  can 

play ; 


POETICAL  CURIOSITIES. 


445 


And  long  before  she  dies  she'll  grieve  she  ever  was 

bom, 
And  I'll  plow  her  grave  with  hate,  and  seed  it  down  to 

scorn. 

As  sure  as  the  world  goes  on,  there'll  come  a  time 

when  she 
Will  read  the  devilish  heart  of  that  han'somer  man 

than  me ; 
And  there'll  be  a  time  when  he  will  find,  as  others  do, 
That  she  who  is  false  to  one,  can  be  the  same  with 

two. 

And  when  her  face  grows  pale,  and  when  her  eyes 

grow  dim. 
And  when  he  is  tired  of  her  and  she  is  tired  of  him. 
She'll  do  what  she  ought  to  have  done,  and  coolly 

count  the  cost ; 
And  then  she'll  see  things  clear,  and  know  what  she 

has  lost. 

And  thoughts  that  are  now  asleep  will  wake  up  in  her 
mind. 

And  she  will  mourn  and  cry  for  what  she  has  left  be- 
hind ; 

And  maybe  she'll  sometimes  long  for  me — forme — but 
no! 

I've  blotted  her  out  of  my  heart,  and  I  will  not  have 
it  so. 

And  yet  in  her  girlish  heart  there  was  somethin'  or 

other  she  had. 
That  fastened  a  man  to  her,  and  wasn't  entirely  bad  ; 
And  she  loved  me  a  little,  I  think,  although  it  didn't 

last; 
But  I  musn't  think  of  these  things — I've  buried  'em  in 

the  past. 

I'll  take  my  hard  words  back,  nor  make;a  bad  matter 

worse ; 
She'll  have  trouble  enough ;  she  shall  not  have  my 

curse ; 
But  I'll  live  a  life  so  square — and  I  well  know  that  I 

can — 
That  she  always  will  sorry  be  that  she  went  with  that 

han'somer  man. 

Ah,  here  is  her  kitchen  dress  !  it  makes  my  poor  eyes 

blur ; 
It  seems  when  I  look  at  that,  as  if  'twas  holdin'  her ; 
And  here  are  her  week-day  shoes,  and  there  is  her 

week-day  hat. 
And  yonder's  her  weddin'  gown :  I  wonder  she  didn't 

take  that. 

'Twas  only  this  momin'  she  came  and  called  me  her 

"  dearest  dear," 
And  said  I  was  makin'  for  her  a  regular  paradise 

here ; 
O  God !  if  you  want  a  man  to  sense  the  pains  of  hell. 
Before  you  pitch  him  in  just  keep  him  in  heaven  a 

spell ! 


Good-bye  !    I  wish  that  death  had  severed  us  two 

apart. 
You've  lost  a  worshipper  here,  you've  crushed  a  lovin' 

heart. 
I'll  worship  no  woman  again  ;  but  I  guess  I'll  learn 

to  pray, 
And  kneel  as  you  used  to  knell,   before  you  run 

away. 

And  if  I  thought  I  could  bring  my  words  on  heaven 

to  bear, 
And  if  I  thought  I  had  some  little  influence  there, 
I  would  pray  that  I  might  be,  if  it  only  could  be  so, 
As  happy  and  gay  as  I  was  half  an  hour  ago. 

Jane  [eniering-]. 

Why,    John,    what    a  litter    here !    you've    thrown 

things  all  around  ? 
Come,  what's  the  matter  now  ?  and  what  have  you 

lost  or  found  ? 
And  here's  my  father  here,  a  waiting  for  supper,  too ; 
I've  been  a  riding  with  him — he's  that  "  handsomer 

man  than  you." 

Ha  !  ha  !  Pa,  take  a  seat,  while  I  put  the  kettle  on, 
And  get  things  ready  for  tea,  and  kiss  my  dear  old 

John. 
Why,  John,  you  look  so  strange !    come,  what  has 

crossed  your  track  ? 
I  was  only  a  joking  you  know,  I'm  willing  to  take  it 

back. 

John  [aside]. 

Well,  now,  if  this  «/«'/  a  joke,  with  rather  a  bitter 

cream ! 
It  seems  as  if  I'd  woke  from  a  mighty  ticklish  dream; 
And  I  think  she  "smells  a  rat,"  for  she  smiles  at  me 

so  queer, 
I  hope  she  don't ;  good  gracious  !    I  hope  that  they 

didn't  hear ! 

'Twas  one  of  her  practical  drives,  she  thought  I'd 

understand  ! 
But  I'll  never  break  sod  again  till  I  get  the  lay  of  the 

land. 
But  one  thing's  settled  with  me — to  appreciate  heaven 

well, 
'Tis  good  for  a  man  to  have  some  fifteen  minutes  of 

hell. 

Will  M.  Carleton. 


AN  ELEGY  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  MAD  DOG. 

,  ODD  people  all,  of  every  sort. 
Give  ear  unto  my  song, 
And,  if  you  find  it  wondrous  short, 
It  cannot  hold  you  long. 

In  Islington  there  was  a  man. 

Of  whom  the  world  might  say, 
That  still  a  godly  race  he  ran — 

Whene'er  he  went  to  pray. 


446 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


A  kind  and  gentle  heart  he  had, 

To  comfort  friends  and  foes  ; 
The  naked  every  day  he  clad — 

When  he  put  on  his  clothes. 

And  in  that  town  a  dog  was  found, 

As  many  dogs  there  be, 
Both  mongrel,  puppy,  whelp,  and  hound, 

And  curs  of  low  degree. 

This  dog  and  man  at  first  were  friends  ; 

But,  when  a  pique  began. 
The  dog,  to  gain  his  private  ends, 

Went  mad,  and  bit  the  man. 

Around  from  all  the  neighboring  streets 

The  wondering  neighbors  ran, 
And  swore  the  dog  had  lost  his  wits. 

To  bite  so  good  a  man. 

The  wound  it  seemed  both  sore  and  sad 

To  every  Christian  eye ; 
And,  while  they  swore  the  dog  was  mad, 

They  swore  the  man  would  die. 

But  soon  a  wonder  came  to  light. 
That  showed  the  rogues  they  lied ; 

The  man  recovered  of  the  bite, 
The  dog  it  was  that  died. 

Oliver  Goldsmith. 


THE  BAGGAGE-FIEND. 

J  *v^    'WAS  a  ferocious  baggage-man,  with  Atlan- 
tean  back, 
And  biceps  upon  each  arm  piled  in  a  for- 
''f  midable  stack, 

That  plied  his  dread  vocation  beside  a  railroad  track. 

Wildly  he  tossed  the  baggage  round  the  platform 

there,  pell-mell, 
And  crushed  to  naught  the  frail  bandbox  where'er  it 

shapeless  fell, 
Or  stove  the  "  Saratoga"  like  the  flimsiest  eggshell. 

On  ironclads,  especially,  he  fell  full  ruthlessly. 

And  eke  the  trunk  derisively  called  "  Cottage  by  the 

Sea  ;" 
And  pulled  and  hauled  and  rammed  and  jammed  the 

same  vindictively, 

Until  a  yearning  breach  appeared,  or  fractures  two  or 
three, 

Or  straps  were  burst,  or  lids  fell  off,  or  some  catas- 
trophe 

Crowned  his  Satanic  zeal  or  moved  his  diabolic  glee. 

The  passengers  surveyed  the  wreck  with  diverse  dis- 
content, 

And  some  vituperated  him,  and  some  made  loud  la- 
ment. 

But  wrath  or  lamentation  on  him  were  vainly  spent. 


To  him  there  came  a  shambling  man,  sad-eyed  and 

meek  and  thin, 
Bearing  an  humble   carpet-bag,    with    scanty   stuff 

therein. 
And  unto  that  fierce  baggage-man  he  spake,    with 

quivering  chin  : 

"  Behold  this  scanty  carpet-bag  !  I  started  a  month 
ago, 

With  a  dozen  Saratoga  trunks,  hat  box,  and  port- 
manteau, 

But  baggage-men  along  the  route  have  brought  me 
down  so  low. 

"  Be  careful  with  this  carpet-bag,  kind  sir,"  said  he 

to  him. 
The  baggage-man  received  it  with  a  smile  extremely 

grim, 
And   softly   whispered,   "Mother,  may  I  go  out  to 

swim  ?" 

* 
Then  fiercely  jumped  upon  that  bag  in  wild,  sardonic 

spleen, 
And  into  countless  fragments  flew — to  his  profound 

chagrin — 
For  that  lank  bag  contained  a  pint  of  nitro-glycerine. 

The  stranger  heaved  a  gentle  sigh,  and  stroked  his 

quivering  chin, 
And  then  he  winked  with  one  sad  eye,  and  said,  with 

smile  serene, 
' '  The  stuff  to  check  a  baggage-man  is  nitro-glycerine!" 


THE  LAND  0'  THE  LEAL. 

'M  wearing  awa',  Jean, 

Like  snaw  when  it's  a  thaw,  Jean, 
I'm  wearing  awa' 

To  the  land  o'  the  leal. 
There's  nae  sorrow  there  Jean, 
There's  neither  cauld  nor  care,  Jean, 
The  day  is  aye  fair 

In  the  land  o'  the  leal. 
Ye  were  aye  leal  and  true,  Jean  ; 
Your  task's  ended  noo,  Jean, 
And  I'll  welcome  you 

To  the  land  o'  the  leal. 
Our  bonnie  bairn's  there,  Jean, 
She  was  baith  guid  and  fa'r,  Jean  ; 
Oh,  we  grudged  her  right  sair 

To  the  land  o'  the  leal. 
Then  dry  that  tearfu'  e'e,  Jean, 
My  soul  langs  to  be  free,  Jean, 
And  angels  wait  on  me 

To  the  land  o'  the  leal. 
Now  fare  ye  weel,  my  ain  Jean, 
This  warld's  care  is  vain,  Jean  ; 
We'll  meet  and  aye  be  fain 

In  the  land  o'  the  leal. 

Carolina,  Baroness  Naire 


POETICAL  CURIOSITIES. 


447 


P 


POOR  LITTLE  JOE. 

ROP  yer  eyes  wide  open,  Joey, 

For  I've  brought  you  sumpin'  great. 
Apples  !    No,  a  heap  sight  better  ! 
Don't  you  take  no  int'rest?    Wait! 
Flowers,  Joe — I  knowed  you'd  like  'em — 

Ain't  them  scrumptious?  Ain't  them  high? 
Tears,  my  boy  ?    Wot's  them  fur,  Joey  ? 
There — poor  little  Joe ! — don't  cry ! 

I  was  skippin'  past  a  winder, 

Where  a  bang-up  lady  sot, 
All  amongst  a  lot  of  bushes — 

Each  one  climbin'  from  a  pot; 
Every  bush  had  flowers  on  it — 

Pretty  ?    Mebbe  not !    Oh,  no ! 
Wish  you  could  a  seen  'em  growin', 

It  was  sich  a  stunnin'  show. 

Well,  I  thought  of  you,  poor  feller, 

Lyin'  here  so  sick  and  weak, 
Never  knowin'  any  comfort. 

And  I  puts  on  lots  o'  cheek. 
"  Missus,"  says  I,  "if  you  please,  mum. 

Could  I  ax  you  for  a  rose  ? 
For  my  little  brother,  missus — 

Never  seed  one,  I  suppose." 

Then  I  told  her  all  about  you — 

How  I  bringed  you  up — poor  Joe ! 
(Lackin'  women  folks  to  do  it.) 

Sich  a'  imp  you  was,  you  know — 
Till  yer  got  that  awful  tumble, 

Jist  as  I  had  broke  yer  in 
(Hard  work,  too,)  to  earn  yer  livin* 

Blackin'  boots  for  honest  tin. 

How  that  tumble  crippled  of  you, 

So's  you  couldn't  hyper  much — 
Joe,  it  hurted  when  I  seen  you 

Fur  the  first  time  with  your  crutch. 
"But,"  I  says,  "  he's  laid  up  now,  mum, 

'Pears  to  weaken  every  day  ; " 
Joe,  she  up  and  went  to  cuttin' — 

That's  the  how  of  this  bokay. 

Say !  It  seems  to  me,  ole  feller. 

You  is  quite  yerself  to-night ; 
Kind  o'  chirk— it's  been  a  fortnit 

Sence  yer  eyes  has  been  so  bright. 
Better?    Well,  I'm  glad  to  hear  it ! 

Yes,  they're  mighty  pretty,  Joe. 
Smellin'  of  'em's  made  you  happy  ? 

Well,  I  thought  it  would,  you  know ! 

Never  see  the  country,  did  you  ? 

Flowers  growin'  everywhere ! 
Some  time  when  you're  better,  Joey, 

Mebbe  I  kin  take  you  there. 


Flowers  in  heaven  ?    'M — I  s'pose  so ; 

Dunno  much  about  it,  though  ; 
Ain't  as  fly  as  wot  I  might  be 

On  them  topics,  little  Joe. 

But  I've  heard  it  hinted  somewheres 

That  in  heaven's  golden  gates 
Things  is  everlastin'  cheerful — 

B'lieve  that's  wot  the  Bible  states. 
Likewise,  there  folks  don't  git  hungry ; 

So  good  people,  when  they  dies. 
Finds  themselves  well  fixed  forever — 

Joe,  my  boy,  wot  ails  yer  eyes  ? 

Thought  they  looked  a  little  sing'ler. 

Oh,  no  !  Don't  you  have  no  fear ; 
Heaven  was  made  fur  such  as  you  is — 

Joe,  wot  makes  you  look  so  queer? 
Here — wake  up  !  Oh,  don't  look  that  way ! 

Joe  !  My  boy  !  Hold  up  yer  head  ! 
Here's  yer  flowers — you  dropped  'em  Joey ! 

Oh,  my  God,  can  Joe  be  dead? 

D.wiD  L.  Proudfit  {Peleg  Arkwrighi.) 


THE  BELLS. 

EAR  the  sledges  with  the  bells — 
Silver  bells  ! 
What  a  world  of  merriment  their  melody  fore- 
tells! 
How  they  tinkle,  tinkle,  tinkle, 

In  the  icy  air  of  night ! 
While  the  stars  that  oversprinkle 
All  the  heavens  seem  to  twinkle 

With  a  crystalline  delight — 
Keeping  time,  time,  time. 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme. 
To  the  tintinnabulation  that  so  musically  wells 
From  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells. 
Bells,  bells,  bells— 
From  the  jingling  and  the  tinkling  of  the  bells. 

Hear  the  mellow  wedding  bells — 
Golden  bells ! 
What  a  world  of  happiness  their  harmony  foretells ! 
Through  the  balmy  air  of  night 
How  they  ring  out  their  delight ! 
From  the  molten-golden  notes. 

And  all  in  tune. 
What  a  liquid  ditty  floats 
To  the  turtle-dove  that  listens,  while  she  gloats 
On  the  moon !  <» 

O,  from  out  the  sounding  cells. 
What  a  gush  of  euphony  voluminously  wells  I 
How  it  swells  ! 
How  it  dwells 
On  the  future  1   how  it  tells 
Of  the  rapture  that  impels 
To  the  swinging  and  the  ringing 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  beJIs, 


448 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Belis,  bells,  bells— 
To  the  rhyming  and  the  chiming  of  the  bells. 

Hear  the  loud  alarum  bells — 
Brazen  bells ! 
What  a  tale  of  terror,  now,  their  turbulency  tells 
In  the  startled  air  of  night 
How  they  scream  out  their  affright ! 
Too  much  horrified  to  speak, 
They  can  only  shriek,  shriek, 
Out  of  tune. 
In  the  clamorous  appealing  to  the  mercy  of  the  fire. 
In  a  mad  expostulation  with  the  deaf  and  frantic  fire 
Leaping  higher,  higher,  higher, 
With  a  desperate  desire, 
And  a  resolute  endeavor, 
Now — now  to  sit,  or  never, 
By  the  side  of  the  pale-faced  moon, 
O  the  bells,  bells,  bells. 
What  a  tale  their  terror  tells 

Of  despair ! 
How  they  clang  and  clash  and  roar ! 
What  a  horror  they  outpour 
On  the  bosom  of  the  palpitating  air ! 
Yet  the  ear  it  fully  knows, 
By  the  twanging. 
And  the  clanging, 
How  the  danger  ebbs  and  flows  ; 
Yet  the  ear  distinctly  tells, 
In  the  jangling. 
And  the  wrangling. 
How  the  danger  sinks  and  swells, 
By  the  sinking  or  the  swelling  in  the  anger  of  the 
bells— 
Of  the  bells— 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells. 
Bells,  bells,  bells— 
In  the  clamor  and  the  clangor  of  the  bells  ! 

Hear  the  tolling  of  the  bells — 
Iron  bells ! 
What  a  world  of  solemn  thought  their  monody  com- 
pels! 
In  the  silence  of  the  night. 
How  we  shiver  with  aflTright 
At  the  melancholy  menace  of  their  tone  ! 
For  every  sound  that  floats 
From  the  rust  within  their  throats 

Is  a  groan. 
And  the  people — ah,  the  people — 
They  that  dwell  up  in  the  steeple, 

All  alone, 
And  who  tolling,  tolling  tolling, 

In  that  muffled  monotone, 
Feel  a  glory  in  so  rolling 

On  the  human  heart  a  stone — 
They  are  neither  man  nor  woman — 
They  are  neither  brute  nor  human — 
They  are  ghouls : 


And  their  king  it  is  who  tolls  ; 
And  he  rolls,  rolls,  rolls, 
Rolls, 

A  p£Ean  from  the  bells  ! 
And  his  merry  bosom  swells 

With  the  psean  of  the  bells  ! 
And  he  dances  and  he  yells  ; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme. 

To  the  pgean  of  the  bells — 
Of  the  bells : 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 

To  the  throbbing  of  the  bells— 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells— 

To  the  sobbing  of  the  bells  ; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time. 

As  he  knells,  knells,  knells. 
In  a  happy  Runic  rhyme. 

To  the  rolling  of  the  bells — 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells— 

To  the  tolling  of  the  bells, 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells- 
Bells,  bells,  bells— 
To  the  moaning  and  the  groaning  of  the  bells. 

Edgar  Allan  Poe. 


llJ 


THE  BELLS  OF  SHANDON. 

Sabbata  pango ; 
Funera  plango ; 
Solemnia  clango. 

Inscription  on  an  old  Bbll. 

ITH  deep  affection 
And  recollection 
I  often  think  of 
Those  Shandon  bells, 
Whose  sounds  so  wild  would 
In  the  days  of  childhood, 
Fling  round  my  cradle 
Their  magic  spells. 

On  this  I  ponder 
Where'er  I  wander. 
And  thus  grow  fonder. 

Sweet  Cork,  of  thee — 
With  thy  bells  of  Shandon, 
That  sound  so  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters 

Of  the  river  Lee. 

I've  heard  bells  chiming 
Full  many  a  clime  in, 
Tolling  sublime  in 
I    Cathedral  shrine, 
While  at  a  glib  rate 
Brass  tongues  would  vibrate ; 
But  all  their  music 
Spoke  naught  like  thine. 


POETICAL   CURIOSITIES. 


449 


For  memor)',  dwelling 
On  each  proud  swelling 
Of  thy  belfry,  knelling 

Its  bold  notes  free, 
Made  the  bells  of  Shandon 
Sound  far  more  grand  on 
The  pleasaat  waters 

Of  the  river  Lee. 

I've  heard  bells  tolling 
Old  Adrian's  Mole"  in, 
Their  thunder  rolling 

From  the  Vatican — 
And  c>-mbals  glorious 
Swinging  uproarious 
In  the  gorgeous  turrets 

Of  Notre  Dame ; 

But  thy  sounds  were  sweeter 
Than  the  dome  of  Peter 
Flings  o'er  the  Tiber, 

Pealing  solemnly. 
O,  the  bells  of  Shandon 
Sound  far  more  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters 

Of  the  river  Lee. 

There's  a  bell  in  Moscow  ; 
While  on  tower  and  kiosko 
In  St,  Sophia 

Tlie  Turkman  gets, 
And  loud  in  air 
Calls  men  to  prayer, 
From  the  tapering  summit 

Of  tall  minarets. 

Such  empty  phantom 

I  freely  grant  them ; 
But  there's  an  anthem 

More  dear  to  me — 
'Tis  the  bells  of  Shandon, 
That  sound  so  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters 

Of  the  river  Lee. 

Francis  Mahony  {^Father  Proui). 


t 


TIM  TWINKLETON'S  TWINS. 

'IM  Twinkleton  was,    I    would    have    you  to 
know, 
A  cheery-faced  tailor,  of  Pineapple  Row  ; 
His  sympathies  warm  as  the  irons  he  used, 
And  his  temper  quite  even,  because  not  abused. 
As  a  fitting  reward  for  his  kindness  of  heart. 
He  was  blessed  with  a  partner,  both  comely    and 

smart, 
And  ten  "olive  branches" — four  girls  and  six  boys — 
Completed  the  household,  divided  its  joys. 

But  another  "  surprise"  was  in  store  for  Tim  T., 
Who,  one  bright  Christmas   morning    was    sipping 
coffee, 

C29J 


When  a  neighbor  (who  acted  as  nurse),  said  with 
glee, 

"You've  just  been  presented  with  twirs!  Do  you 
see  1" 

"  Good  gracious  1"  said  Tim,  overwhelmed  with  sur- 
prise, 

For  he  scarce  could  be  made  to  believe  his  own  eyes; 

His  astonishment  o'er,  he  acknowledged,  of  course. 

That  the  trouble,  indeed,  might  have  been  a  deal 
worse. 

The  twins  were  two  boys,   and  poor    Tim  was  in- 
clined 
To  believe  them  the  handsomest  pair  you  could  find. 
But  fathers'  and  mothers'  opinions,  they  say. 
Always  favor  their  own  children  just  the  same  way. 
"Would  you  like  to  step  up,  sir,  to  see  Mrs.  T.  ?" 
The  good  lady  said  :  "  she's  as  pleased  as  can  be." 
Of  course  the  proud  father  dropped  both  fork  and 

knife. 
And  bounded  up  stairs  to  embrace  his  good  wife. 

Now,  Mrs.  Tim  Twinkleton — I  should  have  said — 
An  industrious,  frugal  life  always  had  led. 
And  kept  the  large  family  from  poverty's  woes, 
By  washing,  and  starching,  and  ironing  clothes. 
But,  before  the  young  twins  had  arrived  in  the  town, 
She'd  intended  to  send  to  a  family  named  Brown, 
Who  resided  some  distance  outside  of  the  city, 
A  basket  of  clothes  ;  so  she  thought  it  a  pity 

That  the  basket  should  meet  any  further  delay, 
And  told  Tim  to  the  depot  to  take  it  that  day. 
He  promised  he  would  and  began  to  make  haste, 
For  he  found  that  there  was  not  a  great  while  to 

waste, 
So,  kissing  his  wife,  he  bade  her  good-bye, 
And  out  of  the  room  in  an  instant  did  hie  ; 
And  met  the  good  nurse,  on  the  stairs,  coming  up 
With  the  "  orthodox  gruel,"  for  his  wife,  in  a  cup. 

"  Where's  the  twins ?"   said  the  tailor.      "Oh,  they 

are  all  right," 
The  good  nurse  replied :  "  they  are  looking  so  bright! 
I  ve  hushed  them  to  sleep — they  look  so  like  their 

Pop— 
And  I've  left  them  down  stairs,  where  they  sleep  like 

a  top." 
In  a  hurry  Tim  shouldered  the  basket,  and  got 
To  the  rail-station,  after  a  long  and  sharp  trot. 
And  he'd  just  enough  time  to  say  "Brown — Norris- 

town — 
A  basket  of  clothes — "  and  then  the  train  was  gone. 

The  light-hearted  tailor  made  haste  to  return. 

For  his  heart  with  affection  for  his  family  did  burn ; 

And  it's  always  the  case,  with  a  saint  or  a  sinner, 

Whate'er  may  occur,  he's  on  hand  for  his  dinner. 

"  How  are  the  twins?  "  was  his  first  inquiry; 

"  I've  hurried  home  quickly,  my  darlings  to  see," 

In  ecstacy,  quite  of  his  reason  bereft. 

"Oh,  the  dear  little  angels  hain't  cried  since  you  left! 


450 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


"Have  you,  my  sweets?" — and  the  nurse  turned  to 

where 
Just  a  short  time  before,  were  her  objects  of  care. 
"Why — which  of  you  children,"  said  she,  with  sur- 
prise, 
"  Removed  that  ar  basket  ? — now  don't  tell  no  lies !  " 
"Basket !  what  basket? "  cried  Tim  with  affright ; 
"Why,  the  basket  of  clothes  I  thought,  it  all  right 
To  put  near  the  fire,  and,  fearing  no  harm, 
Placed  the  twins  in  so  cozy,  to  keep  them   quite 
warm." 

Poor  Tim  roared  aloud  :  ' '  Why,  what  have  I  done  ? 

You  surely  must  mean  what  you  say  but  in  fun  ! 

That  basket !  my  twins  I  shall  ne'er  see  again  ! 

Why,  I  sent  them  both  off  by  the  12  o'clock  train !  " 

The  nurse,  at  these  words,  sank  into  a  chair 

And  exclaimed,  "Oh,  my  precious  dears,  you  hain't 
there ! 

Go,  Twinkleton,  go,  telegraph  like  wildfire!  " 

"Why,"  saia  Tim,  "  they  can't  send  the  twins  home 
on  the  wire! " 

"Oh  dear!"  cried  poor  Tim,  getting  ready  to  go  ; 

"  Could  ever  a  body  have  met  with  such  woe? 

Sure  this  is  the  greatest  of  greatest  mistakes  ; 

Why,  the  twins  will  be  all  squashed  down  into  pan- 
cakes !" 

Tim  Twinkleton  hurried,  as  if  all  creation 
Were  after  him,  quick,  on  his  way  to  the  station. 
"That's  the  man— O  you  wretch!"  and,  tight  as  a 

rasp, 
Poor  Tim  found  himself  in  a  constable's  grasp. 
"Ah!  ha!  I  have  got  yer,  now  don't  say  a  word, 
Yer  know  very  well  about  what  has  occurred  ; 
Come  'long  to  the  station-house,  hurry  up  now, 
Or  'tween  you  and  me  there'll  be  a  big  row." 
"What's  the  charge?"  asked  the  tailor  of  the  magis- 
trate, 
"  I'd  like  to  find  out,  for  it's  getting  quite  late  ;" 
"  So  you  shall,"  he  replied,  "  but  don  t  look  so  meek — 
You  deserted  your  infants — now  hadn't  you  cheek?" 

Now  it  happened  that,  during  the  trial  of  the  case. 
An  acquaintance  of  Tim's  had  stepped  into  the  place, 
And  he  quickly  perceived,  when  he  heard  in  detail 
Tlie  facts  of  the  case,  and  said  he'd  go  bail 
To  any  amount,  for  good  Tim  Twinkleton, 
For  he  knew  he  was  innocent,  "sure  as  a  gun." 
And  the  railway-clerk's  evidence,  given  in  detail 
Was  not  quite  sufficient  to  send  him  to  jail. 

It  was  to  effect,  that  the  squalling  began 
Just  after  the  basket  in  tne  baggage-van 
Had  been  placed  by  Tim  T.,  who  solemnly  swore 
That  he  was  quite  ignorant  of  their  presence  before. 
So  the  basket  was  brought  to  the  magistrate's  sight. 
And  the  twins  on  the  top  of  the  clothes  looked  so  bright, 
That  the  magistrate's  heart  of  a  sudden  enlarged, 
And  he  ordered  that  Tim  Twinkleton  be  discharged. 


Tim  grasped  up  the  basket  and  ran  for  dear  life, 
And  when  he  reached  home  he  first  asked  for  his  wife; 
But  the  nurse  said  with  joy,  "Since  you  left  she  has  slept. 
And  from  her  the  mistakes  of  to-day  I  have  kept." 
Poor  Tim,  and  the  nurse,  and  all  the  small  fry, 
Before  taking  dinner  indulged  in  a  cry. 
The  twins  are  now  grown,  and  they  time  and  again 
Relate  their  excursion  on  a  railway  train. 

Charles  A.  Bell. 

THE  OLD  VILLAGE  CHOIR. 

HAVE  fancied  sometimes  the  Bethlehem  beam 
That  trembled  to  earth  in  the  patriarch's  dream, 
Was  a  ladder  of  song  in  that  wilderness  rest. 
Was  a  pillow  of  stone  to  the  blue  of  the  blest,       / 
And  the  angels  descending  to  dwell  with  us  here, 
"Old  Hundred"  and  "Corinth,"  and  "China"  and 
"Mear." 

All  the  hearts  are  not  dead  nor  under  the  sod, 

That  these  breaths  can  blow  open  to  heaven  and  God. 

Ah,  "Silver  Street "  flows  by  a  bright  shining  road — 

Oh,  not  to  the  hymns  that  in  harmony  flowed. 

But  the  sweet  human  psalms  of  the  old-fashioned  choir, 

To  the  girl  that  sang  alto,  the  girl  that  sang  air. 

"  Let  us  sing  to  God's  praise  !  "  the  minister  said  : 
All  the  psalm  books  at  once  fluttered  open  at  "  York." 
Sunned  their  long-dotted  wings  in  the  words  that  he 

read. 
While  the  leader  leaped  into  the  tune  just  ahead, 
And  politely  picked  up  the  key-note  with  a  fork. 
And  the  vicious  old  viol  went  growling  along 
At  the  heels  of  the  girls  in  the  rear  of  the  song. 

Oh,  I  need  not  a  wing  ; — bid  no  genii  come 

With  a  wonderful  web  from  Arabian  loom, 

To  bear  me  again  up  the  river  of  Time, 

When  the  world  was  in  rhythm  and  life  was  its  rhyme. 

And  the  stream  of  the  years  flowed  so  noiseless  and 

narrow 
That  across  it  there  floated  the  song  of  a  sparrow ; 
For  a  sprig  of  green  caraway  carries  me  there, 
To  the'old  village  church  and  the  old  village  choir, 
Where  clear  of  the  floor  my  feet  slowly  swung 
And  timed  the  sweet  pulse  of  the  praise  that  they  sung, 
Till  the  glory  aslant  from  the  afternoon  sun 
Seemed  the  rafters  of  gold  in  God's  temple  begun ! 

You  may  smile  at  the  nasals  of  old  Deacon  Brown, 

Who  followed  by  scent  till  he  ran  the  tune  down, 
And  dear  sister  Green,  with  more  goodness  than  grace, ' 
Rose  and  fell  on  the  tunes  as  she  stood  in  her  place. 
And  where  "  Coronation"  exultantly  flows 
Tried  to  reach  the  high  notes  on  the  tips  of  her  toes  ! 
To  the  land  of  the  leal  they  have  gone  with  their  song, 
Where  the  choir  and  the  chorus  together  belong. 
Oh  !  be  lifted,  ye  gates  !     Let  us  hear  them  again  ! 
Blessed  song  !    Blessed  singers  !  forever,  Amen  ! 

Benjamin  Franklin  Taylor. 


POETICAL  CURIOSITIES. 


451 


THE  MODERN  BELLE. 

'HE  daughter  sits  in  the  parlor, 
And  rocks  in  her  easy  chair ; 
She  is  dressed  in  silks  and  satins, 
And  jewels  are  in  her  hair  ; 
She  winks,  and  giggles,  and  simpers, 

And  simpers,  and  giggles,  and  winks ; 
And  though  she  talks  but  little. 
It's  vastly  more  than  she  thinks. 

Her  father  goes  clad  in  russet — 

All  brown  and  seedy  at  that ; 
His  coat  is  out  at  the  elbows, 

And  he  wears  a  shocking  bad  hat. 
He  is  hoarding  and  saving  his  dollars, 

So  carefully,  day  by  day. 
While  she  on  her  whims  and  fancies 

Is  squandering  them  all  away. 

She  lies  in  bed  of  a  morning 

Until  the  hour  of  noon. 
Then  comes  down  snapping  and  snarling 

Because  she's  called  too  soon. 
Her  hair  is  still  in  papers, 

Her  cheeks  still  bedaubed  with  paint — 
Remains  of  last  night's  blushes 

Before  she  attempted  to  faint. 

Her  feet  are  so  very  little. 

Her  hands  are  so  very  white, 
Her  jewels  so  very  heavy. 

And  her  head  so  very  light ; 
Her  color  is  made  of  cosmetics — 

Though  this  she'll  never  own  ; 
Her  body  is  mostly  cotton, 

And  her  heart  is  wholly  stone. 

She  falls  in  love  with  a  fellow 

Who  swells  with  a  foreign  air; 
He  marries  her  for  her  money, 

She  marries  him  for  his  hair — 
One  of  the  very  best  matches  ; 

Both  are  well  mated  in  life  ; 
She's  got  a  fool  for  a  husband. 

And  he's  got  a  fool  for  a  wife. 


llJ 


AUNT  TABITHA. 

H  ATEVER  I  do  and  whatever  I  say, 
Aunt  Tabitha  tells  me  that  isn't  the  way. 
When  she  was  a  girl  (forty  summers  ago). 
Aunt  Tabitha  tells  me  they  never  did  so. 


Dear  aunt !     If  I  only  would  take  her  advice — 
But  I  like  my  own  way,  and  I  find  it  so  nice  ! 
And  besides  I  forget  half  the  things  I  am  told  : 
But  they  all  will  come  back  to  me — when  I  am  old. 

If  a  youth  passes  by,  it  may  happen  no  doubt. 
He  may  chance  to  look  in  as  I  chance  to  look  out ; 


She  would  never  endure  an  impertinent  stare. 
It  is  horrid,  she  says,  and  I  musn't  sit  there. 

A  walk  in  the  moonlight  has  pleasure,  I  own. 
But  it  isn't  quite  safe  to  be  walking  alone  ; 
So  I  take  a  lad's  arm— just  for  safety,  you  know- 
But  Aunt  Tabitha  tells  me,  they  didn't  do  so. 

How  wicked  we  are,  and  how  good  they  were  then ! 
They  kept  at  arm's  length  those  detestable  men  ; 
What  an  era  of  virtue  she  lived  in  ! — but  stay — 
Were  the  men  such  rogues  in  Aunt  Tabitha's  day? 

If  the  men  were  so  wicked — I'll  ask  my  papa 
How  he  dared  to  propose  to  my  darling  mama  ? 
Was  he  like  the  rest  of  them  ?  goodness  !  who  knows  ? 
And  what  shall  I  say,  if  a  wretch  should  propose  ? 

I  am  thinking  if  aunt  knew  so  little  of  sin. 

What  a  wonder  Aunt  Tabitha's  aunt  must  have  been  ! 

And  her  grand-aunt — it  scares  me — how  shockingly 

sad 
That  we  girls  of  to-day  are  so  frightfully  bad ! 

A  martyr  will  save  us,  and  nothing  else  can  ; 
Let  us  perish  to  rescue  some  wretched  young  man  ! 
Though  when  to  the  altar  a  victim  I  go. 
Aunt  Tabitha  '11  tell  me — she  never  did  so. 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 


THE  IRISHWOMAN'S  LAMENT. 


ii 


Q 


N  sure  I  was  tould  to  come  till  yer  Honor 
To  see  would  ye  write  a  few  lines  to  me 
Pat? 

He's  gone  for  a  soldier  is  Misther  O'Con- 
ner, 
Wid  a  stripe  on  his  arm,  and  a  band  on  his  hat. 

"And  what'U  ye  tell  him  ?  Sure  it  must  be  aisy 
For  the  likes  of  yer  Honor  to  spake  wid  a  pen. 

Tell  him  I'm  well,  and  mavoumeen  Daisy 
(The  baby,  yer  Honor)  is  better  again, 

"  For  when  he  went  off,  so  sick  was  the  darlint, 

She  never  hilt  up  her  blue  eyes  till  his  face, 
And  when  I'd  becryin'  he'd  look  at  me  wild-like, 
•    And  ax,  'Would  I  wish  for  the  counthrj's  disgrace?' 

"So  he  left  her  in  danger,  an'  me  sorely  gravin'. 
And  followed  the  flag  wid  an  Irishman's  joy; 

And  it's  often  I  drame  of  the  big  drums  a  batin'. 
And  a  bullet  gone  straight  to  the  heart  of  me  boy. 

"Tell  him  to  send  us  a  bit  of  his  money 
For  the  rint,  and  the  doctor's  bill  due  in  a  wake ; 

But  sure — there's  a  tear  on  your  eyelashes,  honey. 
In  faith,  I'd  no  right  wid  such  fradom  to  speak. 

"  I'm  over  much  triflin'.     I'll  not  give  ye  trubble — 
I'll  find  some  one  willin' — oh  !  what  can  it  be? 

What's  that  in  the  newspaper  y'er  foldin'  up  double? 
Yer  Honor,  don't  hide  it,  but  rade  it  to  me. 


452 


CROWN   JEWELS. 


"Dead  !  Patrick  O'Conner  !  oh,  God  !  it's  some  ither. 

Shot  dead  !    Sure  a  week's  scarce  gone  by ; 
An'  the  kiss  on  the  cheek  o'  his  sorrowing  mither, 

It  hasn't  had  time  yet,  yer  Honor,  to  dry. 

"  Dead  !  Dead !  Oh,  my  God,  am  I  crazy? 

Shure  it's  brakin'  my  lieart,  yer  tellin'  me  so. 
And  what  in  the  world  will  become  of  me  Daisy  ? 

Oh,  what  can  I  do  !  Oh,  where  shall  I  go  ? 

"This  room  is  so  dark,  I'm  not  seein',  yer  Honor; 

I  think  I'll  go  home" — and  a  sob,  hard  and  drj-, 
Rose  up  from  the  bosom  of  Mary  O'Conner, 

But  never  a  tear-drop  welled  up  to  her  eye. 

VISION  OF  THE  MONK  GABRIEL. 

'  IS  the  soft  twilight.  Round  the  shining  fender — 
Two  at  my  feet  and  one  upon  my  knee — 
Dreamy-eyed  Elsie,  bright-lipped  Isabel, 
^       And  thou,  my  golden-headed  Raphael, 
My  fairy,  small  and  slender, 
Listen  to  what  befell 
Monk  Gabriel, 
In  the  old  ages  ripe  with  mystery  : 
Listen,  my  darlings,  to  the  legend  tender. 

An  aged  man  with  grave,  but  gentle  look — 
His  silence  sweet  with  sounds 
With  which  the  simple-hearted  spring  abounds  ; 
Lowing  of  cattle  from  the  abbey  grounds. 
Chirping  of  insect,  and  the  building  rock 
Mingled  like  murmurs  of  a  dreaming  shell ; 
Quaint  tracer>'  of  bird,  and  branch,  and  brook. 
Flitting  across  the  pages  of  his  book, 
Until  the  very  words  a  freshness  took — 
Deep  in  his  cell 
Sat  the  monk  Gabriel. 

In  his  book  he  read 
The  words  the  Master  to  His  dear  ones  said  : 
"A  little  while  and  ye 
Shall  see, 

Shall  gaze  on  Me  ; 

A  little  while  again. 

Ye  shall  not  see  Me  then." 
A  little  while ! 
The  monk  looked  up — a  smile 
Making  his  visage  brilliant,  liquid-eyed  : 
Thou  who  gracious  art 
Unto  the  poor  of  heart, 
O  blessed  Christ !  "  he  cried, 
"Great  is  the  misery 

Of  mine  iniquity ; 
But  would  /now  might  see, 
Might  feast  on  Thee !  " 
— The  blood  with  sudden  start, 
Nigh  rent  his  veins  apart — 
(Oh  condescension  of  the  Crucified  :) 

In  all  the  brilliancy 

Of  His  Humanity — 
The  Christ  stood  by  his  side  ! 


Pure  as  t'ne  early  lily  was  His  skin, 
His  cheek  out-blushed  the  rose, 

His  lips,  the  glows 
Of  autumn  sunset  on  eternal  snows  ; 

And  His  deep  eyes  within, 
Such  nameless  beauties,  wondrous  glories  dwelt 
The  monk  in  speechless  adoration  knelt. 
In  each  fair  hand,  in  each  fair  foot  there  shone 
The  peerless  stars  He  took  from  Calvary  ; 
Around  His  brows  in  tenderest  lucency 
The  thorn-marks  lingered,  like  the  flash  of  dawn  ; 
And  from  the  opening  in  His  side  there  rilled 
A  light,  so  dazzling,  that  all  the  room  was  filled 
With  heaven  ;  and  transfigured  in  his  place, 

His  very  breathing  stilled, 
The  friar  held  his  robe  before  his  face, 

And  heard  the  angels  singing  ! 

'Twas  but  a  moment — then,  upon  the  spell 
Of  this  sweet  presence,  lo  !  a  something  broke, 
A  something  trembling,  in  the  belfry  woke, 

A  shower  of  metal  music  flinging 
O'er  wold  and  moat,  o'er  park  and  lake  and  fell. 
And  through  the  open  windows  of  the  ceH 

In  silver  chimes  came  ringing. 

It  was  the  bell 

Calling  monk  Gabriel, 

Unto  his  daily  task. 
To  feed  the  paupers  at  the  abbey  gate  ; 

No  respite  did  he  ask. 
Nor  for  a  second  summons  idly  wait ; 
But  rose  up,  saying  in  his  humble  way  ; 
"  Fain  would  I  stay, 

O  Lord  !  and  feast  alway 
Upon  the  honeyed  sweetness  of  Thy  beauty  ; 
But  'tis  T/iy  will,  not  mine.     I  must  obey. 

Help  me  to  do  my  duty  !  " 

The  while  the  Vision  smiled, 
The  monk  went  forth,  light-hearted  as  a  child. 

An  hour  hence,  his  duty  nobly  done 

Back  to  his  cell  he  came, 
Unasked,  unsought,  lo  !  his  reward  was  won ! 
—Rafters  and  walls  and  floor  were  yet  aflame 
With  all  the  matchless  glory  of  that  sun, 
And  in  the  centre  stood  the  Blessed  One 
(Praise  be  His  Holy  Name  !) 
Who  for  our  sakes  our  crosses  made  His  own, 
And  bore  our  weight  of  shame. 

Down  on  the  threshold  fell 

Monk  Gabriel, 
His  forehead  pressed  upon  tlie  floor  of  clay. 
And  while  in  deep  humility  he  lay, 
(Tears  raining  from  his  happy  eyes  away) 
"Whence  is  this  favor.  Lord?"  he  strove  to  say. 

The  Vision  only  said, 
Lifting  its  shining  head ; 
"  If  ihou  hadst  staid,  O  son,  /  must  have  fled." 

Eleanor  C.  Donnelly. 


POETICAL   CURIOSITIES. 


453 


LET  US  ALL  BE  UNHAPPY  TOGETHER. 

E  bipeds,  made  up  of  frail  clay, 

Alas !  are  the  children  of  sorrow ; 
And,  though  brisk  and  merry  to-day, 
We  may  all  be  unhappy  to-morrow. 
For  sunshine's  succeeded  by  rain ; 

Then,  fearful  of  life's  stormy  weather, 
Lest  pleasure  should  only  bring  pain, 
Let  us  all  be  unhappy  together. 

I  grant  the  best  blessing  we  know 

Is  a  friend,  for  true  friendship's  a  treasure ; 
And  yet,  lest  your  friend  prove  a  foe, 

Oh  !  taste  not  the  dangerous  pleasure. 
Thus  friendship's  a  flimsy  affair, 

Thus  riches  and  health  are  a  bubble ; 
Thus  there's  nothing  delightful  but  care, 

Nor  anything  pleasing  but  trouble. 

If  a  mortal  could  point  out  that  life 

Which  on  earth  could  be  nearest  to  heaven, 
Let  him,  thanking  his  stars,  choose  a  wife 

To  whom  truth  and  honor  are  given. 
But  honor  and  truth  are  so  rare, 

And  horns,  when  they're  cutting,  so  tingle, 
That,  with  all  my  respect  to  the  fair, 

I'd  advise  him  to  sigh,  and  live  single. 

It  appears  from  these  premises  plain, 

That  wisdom  is  nothing  but  folly  ; 
That  pleasure's  a  term  that  means  pain, 

And  that  joy  is  your  true  melancholy  ; 
That  all  those  who  laugh  ought  to  cry, 

That  't  is  fine  frisk  and  fun  to  be  grieving  ; 
And  that,  since  we  must  all  of  us  die, 

We  should  taste  no  enjoyment  while  living. 

Charles  Dibdin. 


THE  OLD  WAYS  AND  THE  NEW. 

^  VE  just  come  in  from  the  meadow,  wife,  where 
the  grass  is  tall  and  green  ; 
I  hobbled  out  upon  my  cane  to  see  John's  new 
machine  ; 
It  made  my  old  eyes  snap  again  to  see  that  mower 

mow. 
And  I  heaved  a  sigh  for  the  scythe  I  swung  some 
twenty  years  ago. 

Many  and  many's  the  day  1  ve  mowed  'neath  the  rays 

of  a  scorching  sun, 
Till  I  thought  my  poor  old  back  would  break  ere  my 

task  for  the  day  was  done  ; 
I  often  think  of  the  days  of  toil  in  the  fields  all  over 

the  farm, 
Till  I  feel  the  sweat  on  my  wrinkled  brow,  and  the  old 

pain  come  in  my  arm. 

It  was  hard  work,  it  was  slow  work'  a-swinging  the 
old  scythe  then  ; 


Unlike  the  mower  that  went  through  the  grass  like 

death  through  the  ranks  of  men. 
I  stood  and  looked  till  my  old  eyes  ached,  amazed  at 

its  speed  and  power  ; 
The  work  that  it  took  me  a  day  to  do,  it  done  in  one 

short  hour. 

John  said  that  I  hadn't  seen  the  half:  when  he  puts  it 

into  his  wheat, 
I  shall  see  it  reap  and  rake  it,  and  put  it  in  bundles 

neat; 
Then  soon  a  Yankee  will  come  along,  and  set  to  work 

and  lam 
To  reap  it,  and  thresh  it,  and  bag  it  up,  and  send  it 

into  the  barn, 

John  kinder  laughed  when  he  said  it,  but  I  said  to  the 

hired  men, 
"I  have  seen  so  much  on  my  pilgrimage  through  my 

threescore  j'ears  and  ten, 
That  I  wouldn't  be  surprised  to  see  a  railroad  in  the 

air. 
Or  a  Yankee  in  a  flyin'  ship  a-goin'  most  anywhere." 

There's  a  difference  in  the  work  I  done,  and  the  work 

my  boys  now  do  ; 
Steady  and  slow  in  the  good  old  way,  worry  and  fret 

in  the  new ; 
But  somehow  I  think  there  was  happiness  crowded 

into  those  toiling  days, 
That  the  fast  young  men  of  the  present  will  not  see 

till  they  change  their  ways. 

To  think  that  I  ever  should  live  to  see  work  done  in 
this  wonderful  way  I 

Old  tools  are  of  little  service  now,  and  farmin'  is  al- 
most play ; 

The  women  have  got  their  sewing  machines,  their 
wringers,  and  every  sich  thing, 

And  now  play  tennis  in  the  door-yard,  or  sit  in  the 
parlor  and  sing. 

'Twasn't  you  that  had  it  so  easy,  wife,  in  the  days  so 

long  gone  by ; 
You  riz  up  early,  and  sat  up  late,  a  toilin'  for  you 

and  I. 
There  were  cows  to  milk  ;  there  was  butter  to  make  ; 

and  many  a  day  did  you  stand 
A-washin'  my  toil-stained  garments,  and  wringin'  em 

out  by  hand. 

Ah  !  wife,  our  children  will  never  see  the  hard  work 

we  have  seen, 
For  the  heavy  task  and  the  long  task  is  now  done 

with  a  machine  ; 
No  longer  the  noise  of  the  scythe  I  hear,  the  mower 

— there  !  hear  it  afar  ? 
A-rattlin'  along  through  the  tall,  stout  grass  with  the 

noise  of  a  railroad  car. 


454 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


Well !  the  old  tools  now  are  shoved  away ;  they  stand 

a-gaiherin  rust, 
Like  many  an  old  man  I  have  seen  put  aside  with 

only  a  criist ; 
When  the  eye  grows  dim,  when  the  step  is  weak, 

when  the  strength  goes  out  of  his  arm, 
The  best  thing  a  poor  old  man  can  do  is  to  hold  the 

deed  of  the  farm. 

There  is  one  old  way  that  they  can't  improve  although 

it  has  been  tried 
By  men  who  have  studied  and  studied,  and  worried 

till  they  died ; 
It  has  shone  undimmed  for  ages,  like  gold  refined 

from  its  dross  ; 
It's  the  way  to  the  kingdom  of  heaven,  by  the  simple 

way  of  the  cross. 

John  H.  Yates. 

THE  WAY  TO  SING. 

'HE  birds  must  know.    Who  wisely  sings 
Will  sing  as  tliey. 
The  common  air  has  generous  wings : 
Songs  make  their  way. 

No  messenger  to  run  before, 

Devising  plan ; 
No  mention  of  the  place,  or  hour. 

To  any  man ; 
No  waiting  till  some  sound  betrays 

A  listening  ear ; 
No  different  voice,  no  new  delays. 

If  steps  draw  near. 

"  What  bird  is  that  ?    The  song  is  good." 
And  eager  eyes 
Go  peering  through  the  dusky  wood 
In  glad  surprise. 

Then,  late  at  night,  when  by  his  fire, 

The  traveler  sits. 
Watching  the  flame  grow  brighter,  higher. 

The  sweet  song  flits, 
By  snatches,  through  his  weary  brain, 

To  help  him  rest ; 
When  next  he  goes  that  road  again. 

An  empty  nest 
On  leafless  bow  will  make  him  sigh  : 

"Ah  me!  last  spring. 
Just  here  I  heard,  in  passing  by, 

That  rare  bird  sing." 

But  while  he  sighs,  remembering 

How  sweet  the  song, 
The  little  bird,  on  tireless  wing, 

Is  borne  along 
In  other  air  ;  and  other  men. 

With  weary  feet. 
On  other  roads,  the  simple  strain 

Are  finding  sweet. 


The  birds  must  know.     Who  wisely  sings 

Will  sing  as  they. 
The  common  air  has  generous  wings  : 

Songs  make  their  way. 

Hellen  Hunt  Jackson  {H.  H.) 


llJ' 


AN  INCOMPLETE  REVELATION. 

HILE  Quaker  folks  were  Quakers  still,  some 
fifty  years  ago, 
When  coats  were  drab  and  gowns  were  plain 
and  speech  was  staid  and  slow, 
Before  Dame  Fashion  dared  suggest  a  single  friz  or  curl. 
There  dwelt,  mid  Penfield's  peaceful  shades,  an  old- 
time  Quaker  girl. 

Ruth  Wilson's  garb  was  of  her  sect.  Devoid  of  furbe- 
lows. 

She  spoke  rebuke  to  vanity  from  bonnet  to  her  toes  ; 

Sweet  redbird  was  she,  all  disguised  in  feathers  of  the 
dove. 

With  dainty  foot  and  perfect  form  and  eyes  that  dreamt 
of  love. 

Sylvanus  Moore,  a  bachelor  of  forty  years  or  so, 

A  quaintly  pious,  weazened  soul,  with  beard  and  hair 

of  tow 
And  queer  thin  legs  and  shuffling  walk  and  drawling, 

nasal  tone, 
Was  prompted  by  the  Spirit  to  make  this  maid  his  own. 

He  knew  it  was  the  Spirit,  for  he  felt  it  in  his  breast 
As  oft  before  in  meeting-time,  and,  sure  of  his  request, 
Procured  the  permit  in  due  form.    On  Fourth-day  of 

that  week 
He  let  Ruth  know  the  message  true  that  he  was  moved 

to  speak. 

"  Ruth,  it  has  been  revealed  to  me  that  thee  and  I  shall 
wed, 

I  have  spoken  to  the  meeting  and  the  members  all 
have  said 

That  our  union  seems  a  righteous  one,  which  they  will 
not  gainsay, 

So  if  convenient  to  thy  views,  I'll  wed  thee  next  Third- 
day." 

The  coolpossessionof  herself  by  Friend  Sylvanus  Moore 

Aroused  her  hot  resentment,  which  by  effort  she  for- 
bore— 

She  knew  he  was  a  goodly  man,  of  simple,  childlike 
mind — 

And  checked  the  word  '"Impertinence  !  '  and  answered 
him  in  kind  : 

"Sylvanus  Moore,  do  thee  go  home  and  wait  until  I 

see 
The  fact  that  I  must  be  thy  wife  revealed  unto  rtte." 
And  thus  she  left  him  there  alone,  at  will  to  ruminate — 
Sore  puzzled  at  the  mysteries  of  love,  free-will,  and 

fate. 

Richard  A.  Jackson. 


POETICAL   CURIOSITIES. 


455 


U 


THE  COSMIC  EGG. 

PON  a  rock  yet  uncreate, 
Amid  a  chaos  inchoate, 
An  uncreated  being  sate  ; 
Beneath  him,  rock. 
Above  him,  cloud. 
And  the  cloud  was  rock, 
And  the  rock  was  cloud. 
The  rock  then  growing  soft  and  warm, 
The  cloud  began  to  take  a  form, 
A  form  chaotic,  vast  and  vague, 
Which  issued  in  the  cosmic  egg. 
Then  the  Being  uncreate 
On  the  egg  did  incubate. 
And  thus  became  the  incubator ; 
And  of  the  egg  did  allegate, 
Apd  thus  became  the  alligator ; 
And  the  incubator  was  potentate, 
But  the  alligator  was  potentator. 


HOLY  WILLIE'S  PRAYER. 

THOU,  wha  in  the  heavens  dost  dwell, 
Wha,  as  it  pleases  best  thysel', 
Sends  ane  to  heaven,  ane  ten  to  hell, 
A*  for  thy  glory. 
And  no  for  onie  guid  or  ill 

They've  done  afore  thee  ! 

I  bless  and  praise  Thy  matchless  might, 
Whan  thousands  Thou  has  left  in  night. 
That  I  am  here  afore  Thy  sight, 

For  gifts  an'  grace, 
A  burning  an'  a  shining  light. 

To  a'  this  place. 

What  was  I,  or  my  generation, 
That  I  should  get  such  exaltation  ? 
I,  wha  deserve  such  just  damnation. 

For  broken  laws. 
Five  thousand  years  'fore  my  creation. 

Through  Adam's  cause. 

When  frae  my  mither's  womb  I  fell, 
Thou  might  iiae  plunged  me  into  hell, 
To  gnash  my  gums,  to  weep  and  wail, 

In  bumin'  lake, 
Where  damned  devils  roar  and  yell. 

Chained  to  a  stake. 

Yet  I  am  here  a  chosen  sample. 

To  show  Thy  grace  is  great  and  ample  ; 

I'm  here  a  pillar  in  Thy  temple. 

Strong  as  a  rock, 
A  guide,  a  buckler,  an  example 

To  a'  Thy  flock. 

O  Lord,  thou  kens  what  zeal  I  bear, 
When  drinkers  drink,  and  swearers  swear, 


And  singing  there,  and  dancing  here, 

Wi'  great  and  sma'  : 
For  I  am  keepit  by  Thy  fear. 

Free  frae  them  a'. 

But  yet,  O  Lord  !  confess  I  must, 
At  times  I'm  fashed  wi'  fleshly  lust, 
An*  sometimes,  too,  wi'  warldly  trust — 

Vile  self  gets  in  ; 
But  Thou  remembers  we  are  dust. 

Defiled  in  sin. 

Maybe  thou  lets  this  fleshly  thorn 

Beset  Thy  servant  e'en  and  morn. 

Lest  he  owre  high  and  proud  should  turn, 

'Cause  he's  sae  gifted  ; 
If  sae,  Thy  hand  maun  e'en  be  borne, 

Until  Thou  lift  it. 

Lord,  bless  thy  chosen  in  this  place. 
For  here  Thou  hast  a  chosen  race  ; 
But  God  confound  their  stubborn  face. 

And  blast  their  name, 
Wha  bring  Thy  elders  to  disgrace, 

An'  public  shame. 

Lord,  mind  Gawn  Hamilton's  deserts. 
He  drinks,  an'  swears,  an'  plays  at  cartes. 
Yet  has  sae  monie  takin'  arts, 

Wi'  great  and  sma', 
Frae  God's  ain  priests  the  people's  hearts 

He  steals  awa'. 

An'  when  we  chastened  him  therefore, 
Thou  kens  how  he  bred  sic  a  splore. 
As  set  the  warld  in  a  roar 

O'  laughin'  at  us  ; — 
Curse  Thou  his  basket  and  his  store. 

Kail  and  potatoes. 

Lord,  hear  my  earnest  cry  an'  prayer. 

Against  that  Presbyt'ry  o'  Ayr  ; 

Thy  strong  right  hand,  Lord,  make  it  bare, 

Upo'  their  heads ; 
Lord,  weigh  it  down,  and  dinna  spare. 

For  their  misdeeds, 

O  Lord  my  God,  that  glib-tongued  Aiken, 

My  very  heart  and  saul  are  quakin' 

To  think  how  we  stood  sweatin',  shakin', 

An'  swat  wi'  dread, 
While  he  wi'  hinging  lips  gaed  snakin'. 

An'  hid  his  head. 

Lord,  in  the  day  o'  vengeance  try  him, 
Lord,  visit  them  wha  did  employ  him. 
And  pass  not  in  Thy  mercy  by  'em. 

Nor  hear  their  prayer; 
But  for  Thy  people's  sake  destroy  'em. 

And  dinna  spare. 


456 


CROWN   JEWELS. 


But,  Lord,  remember  me  and  mine 
Wi'  mercies  temp'ral  and  divine, 
That  I  for  gear  and  grace  may  shine, 

Excelled  by  nane, 
An'  a'  the  glory  shall  be  Thine, 

Amen,  Amen. 

Robert  Burns. 


DECEMBER  AND  MAY. 

Crabbed  Age  and  Vouth  cannot  live  together. 

Shakijspeare. 

'AID   Nestor  to  his  pretty  wife,  quite  sorrowful 
one  day, 
"Why,  dearest,  will   you  shed  in  pearls  tliose 
lovely  eyes  away  ? 
You  ought  to  be  more  fortified. "    "  Ah,  brute,  be  quiet, 

do, 
I  know  I'm  not  so  fortified,  nor  fiftyfied,  as  you  1 

"Oh,  men  are  vile  deceivers  all,  as  I  have  ever  heard, 
You'd  die  for  me  you  swore,  and  I — I  took  you  at  your 

word. 
I  was  a  tradesman's  widow  then — a  pretty  change  I  've 

made ; 
To  live  and  die  the  wife  of  one,  a  widower  by  trade  ! " 

"Come,  come,  my  dear,  these  flighty  airs  declare,  in 

scfber  truth. 
You  want  as  much  in  age,  indeed,  as  I  can  want  in 

youth  ; 
Besides,  you  said  you  liked  old  men,  though  now  at 

me  you  huff." 
"Why,  yes,"  she  said,  "and  so  I  do — but  you  're  not 

old  enough  ! " 

"  Come,  come,  my  dear,  let's  make  it  up,  and  have  a 

quiet  hive ; 
I'll  be  the  best  of  men — I  mean  I'll  be  the  best  alive. 
Your  grieving  so  will  kill  me,  for  it  cuts  me  to  the 

core." 
"  I  thank  ye  sir,  for  telling  me,  for  now  I'll  grieve  the 

more  ! " 


THE  THREE  WARNINGS. 

'HE  tree  of  deepest  root  is  found 

Least  willing  still  to  quit  the  ground ; 
*Twas  therefore  said  by  ancient  sages, 
"f*  That  love  of  life  increased  with  years 

So  much,  that  in  our  latter  stages. 
When  pains  grow  sharp,  and  sickness  rages. 

The  greatest  love  of  life  appears. 
This  great  affection  to  believe. 
Which  all  confess,  but  few  perceive, 
If  old  assertions  can't  prevail, 
Be  pleased  to  hear  a  modern  tale. 

When  sports  went  round,  and  all  were  gay, 
On  neighbor  Dodson's  wedding-day, 


Death  called  aside  the  jocund  groom 

With  him  into  another  room, 

And  looking  grave — "You  must,"  says  he, 
"  Quit  your  sweet  bride,  and  come  with  me." 
"With  you  !  and  quit  my  Susan's  side  ? 

With  you  ! "  the  hapless  husband  cried  ; 
"  Young  as  I  am,  'tis  monstrous  hard  ! 

Besides,  in  truth,  I'm  not  prepared  : 

My  thoughts  on  other  matters  go  ; 

This  is  my  wedding-day,  you  know." 

What  more  he  urged  I  have  not  heard. 

His  reasons  could  not  well  be  stronger ; 
So  death  the  poor  delinquent  spared, 

And  left  to  live  a  little  longer. 
Yet  calling  up  a  serious  look, 
His  hour-glass  trembled  while  he  spoke — 
" Neighbor,"  he  said,  "farewell!  no  more 
Shall  Death  disturb  your  mirthful  hour : 
And  further,  to  avoid  all  blame 
Of  cruelty  upon  thy  name. 
To  give  you  time  for  preparation. 
And  fit  you  for  your  future  station, 
Three  several  warnings  you  shall  have, 
Before  you're  summoned  to  the  grave  ; 
Willing  for  once  I'll  quit  my  prey. 

And  grant  a  kind  reprieve  ; 
In  hopes  you'll  have  no  more  to  say  ; 
But,  when  I  call  again  this  way. 

Well  pleased  the  world  will  leave." 
To  these  conditions  both  consented. 
And  parted  perfectly  contented. 

What  next  the  hero  of  our  tale  befell. 
How  long  he  lived,  how  wise,  how  well, 
How  roundly  he  pursued  his  course, 
And  smoked  his  pipe,  and  stroked  his  horse, 

The  willing  muse  shall  tell : 
He  chaffered,  then  he  bought  and  sold. 
Nor  once  perceived  his  growing  old. 

Nor  thought  of  Death  as  near : 
His  friends  not  false,  his  wife  no  shrew. 
Many  his  gains,  his  children  few. 

He  passed  his  hours  in  peace. 
But  while  he  viewed  his  wealth  increase. 
While  thus  along  life's  dusty  road, 
The  beaten  track  content  he  trod, 
Old  Time,  whose  haste  no  mortal  spares. 
Uncalled,  unheeded,  unawares, 

Brought  on  his  eightieth  year. 
And  now,  one  night,  in  musing  mood, 

As  all  alone  he  sate. 
The  unwelcome  messenger  of  fate 

Once  more  before  him  stood. 

Half-killed  with  anger  and  surprise, 
"So  soon  returned  ! ''  old  Dodson  cries. 
"  So  soon,  d'  ye  call  it  ?  "  death  replies : 
"  Surely,  my  friend,  you're  but  in  jest ! 


POETICAL  CURIOSITIES. 


457 


Since  I  was  here  before 
'Tis  six-and-thirty  years  at  least, 
And  you  are  now  fourscore." 

"  So  much  the  wofse,"  the  clown  rejoined  ; 
"To  spare  the  aged  would  be  kind  : 
Beside,  you  promised  me  three  warnings, 
Which  I  have  looked  for  nights  and  mornings  ; 
But  for  that  loss  of  time  and  ease, 
I  can  recover  damages." 

"  I  know,"  cries  Death,  "that  at  the  best, 

I  seldom  am  a  welcome  guest; 

But  don't  be  captious,  friend,  at  least; 

I  little  thought  you'd  still  be  able 

To  stump  about  your  farm  and  stable  : 

Your  years  have  run  to  a  great  length  : 

I  wish  you  joy,  though'  of  your  strength  ! " 

"Hold  ! "  says  the  farmer ;  "  not  so  fast ! 
I  have  been  lame  these  four  years  past." 
"And  no  great  wonder,"  Death  replies : 
"  However,  you  still  keep  your  eyes  ; 
And  sure  to  see  one's  loves  and  friends, 
For  legs  and  arms  would  make  amends." 

"  Perhaps,"  says  Dodson,  "  so  it  might, 

But  latterly  I've  lost  my  sight." 

"  This  is  a  shocking  tale,  'tis  true  ; 

But  still  there's  comfort  left  for  you  : 

Each  strives  your  sadness  to  amuse  ; 

I  warrant  you  hear  all  the  news." 

"There's  none,"  cries  he  ;  "  and  if  there  were, 

I'm  grown  so  deaf,  I  could  not  hear." 
"  Nay,  then,"  the  spectre  stern  rejoined, 


"  These  are  unjustifiable  yearnings ; 
If  you  are  lame,  and  deaf,  and  blind, 

You've  had  your  three  sufficient  warnings  ; 
So  come  along  ;  no  more  we'll  part ;" 
He  said,  and  touched  him  with  his  dart. 
And  now  old  Dodson,  turning  pale. 
Yields  to  his  fate — so  ends  my  tale. 

Mrs.  Thrale. 


1^ 


TO  THE  TERRESTRIAL  GLOBE. 

BY  A  MISERABLE  WRETCH. 

OLL  on,  thou  ball,  roll  on  ! 
Through  pathless  realms  of  space 

Roll  on ! 
What  though  I'm  in  a  sorry  case? 
What  though  I  cannot  meet  my  bills  ? 
What  though  I  suffer  toothache's  ills  ? 
What  though  I  swallow  countless  pills  ? 
Never  jyoa  mind  ! 
Roll  on  ! 

Roll  on,  thou  ball,  roll  on  ! 
Through  seas  of  inky  air 

Roll  on ! 
It's  true  I've  got  no  shirts  to  wear, 
It's  true  my  butcher's  bill  is  due, 
It's  true  my  prospects  all  look  blue, 
But  don't  let  that  unsettle  you  ! 
Never  jj/(3«  mind ! 
Roll  on ! 

in  rolls  on. 
William  Schwenck  Gilbert. 


HUMOROUS  readings:- 


A  LOVE  LETTER  FROM  DAKOTA. 

WEET  Jinny,  I  write  on  me 
knee 
Wid  the  sh tump  of  a 
limitid  pincil ; 
I  would  write  on  my 
disk,  but  you  see 
I'm  widout  that  convainient 
utinsil. 
I've  a  house  of  my  own,  but 
as  yet 
Me   furniture's   homely  an' 
shlinder ; 
It's  a  wife  I  am  afther,  to  let 
Her    consult  her  ideals  of 
shplindor. 
If  I   should    buy    tables    an' 
chairs. 
An'  bureaus,  an'  carpets,  an' 
vases. 
An'— bother  the  lingo  of  wares  ! — 

An'  curtains  wid  camel-hair  laces, 
Perhaps  whin  I  married  a  wife 

She  would  turn  up  her  nose  at  me  choosin'. 
Or  waysht  the  shweet  bloom  of  her  life 
Wid  pretinse  of  contint  at  their  usin'. 
So  now,  I've  no  carpets  to  shweep. 
Nor  tables  nor  chairs  to  tip  o'er ; 
Whin  night  comes  I  roll  up  an'  shleep 

As  contint  as  a  pig  on  the  floor. 
But  ah,  the  shweet  dreams  that  I  dream 

Of  Erin's  most  beautiful  daughter  ! 
Until  in  me  visions  you  seem 
On  your  way  to  me  over  the  water  ! 
( — Please  pardon  me  method  ungainly, 

But,  hopin'  the  future  may  yoke  us, 
I'll  try  to  be  bould  an'  speak  plainly, 
An'  bring  me  note  down  to  a  focus : — ) 
Would  you  marry  a  man  wid  a  farrum. 
An'  a  house  most  ixquisitely  warrum, 
Wid  wall  so  ixcaidin'ly  thick,  m'am. 
For  they're  built  of  a  single  big  brick,  ma'am, 
Touchin'  Mexico,  Texas,  Nebrasky — 
The  thickest  walls  iver  you  thought  of. 
Why,  they  cover  the  country  we  bought  of 
The  sire  of  Alexis — Alasky  1 
For  sure  its  great  walls  are  the  worruld — 

In  fact  it's  a  hole  in  the  ground  ; 
But  oh,  it's  the  place  to  be  curruled . 

Whin  the  whirlwinds  are  twirlin'  around  ! 
It  is  ivery  bit  basemint  ixcipt 
The  parlor,  that  lies  out-of-doors, 


Where  the  zephyr's  pure  fingers  have  swept 

Its  million-ply  carpeted  floors. 
Forgive  me  ixtravigant  speeches. 

But  it's  fair  as  the  dreams  of  a  Hindoo, 
Wid  me  parlor's  unlimited  reaches 

An'  the  sky  for  a  sunny  bay-window. 

Me  darlint,  Dakota  is  new,    - 

Sod  houses  are  here  widout  number, 
But  I'll  build  a  broad  mansion  for  you — 

Whin  I'm  able  to  purchase  the  lumber. 
An'  sure  'twill  not  take  very  long>- 

Where  the  soil  is  so  fertile,  I'm  tould  : 
Whin  you  tune  up  your  plow  for  a  song. 

The  earth  hums  a  chorus  of  gould. 

Thin  come  to  your  Dinnis  O'Brion, 

An'  let  his  fidelity  prove 
That  his  heart  is  as  strong  as  a  lion, 

Ixcipt  that  it's  burstin'  wid  love. 

W.  W.  Fink. 


THE  DEACON'S  CONFESSION. 

ES,  surely  the  bells  in  the  steeple 

Were  ringing  ;  I  thought  you  knew  why. 
No  ?    Well,  then,  I'll  tell  you,  though  mostly 
It's  whispered  about  on  the  sly  : 
Some  six  weeks  ago  a  church  meeting 

Was  held,  for — no  one  knew  what ; 
But  we  went,  and  the  parson  was  present, 
And  I  don't  know  who,  or  who  not. 

Some  twenty  odd  members,  I  calc'late 

Which  mostly  was  wimmin,  of  course  ; 
But  I  don't  mean  to  say  aught  agin  'em— 

I  seen  many  gatherings  look  worse. 
And  in  the  front  row  sat  the  deacons  ; 

The  eldest  was  old  Deacon  Pryor, 
A  man  countin'  fourscore  and  seven, 

And  ginerally  full  of  his  ire. 

Beside  him  his  wife,  aged  fourscore, 

A  kind-hearted,  motherly  soul ; 
And,  next  to  her,  young  Deacon  Hartley, 

A  good  Christian  man,  on  the  whole. 
Miss  Parsons,  a  spinster  of  fifty, 

And  long  ago  laid  on  the  shell, 
Had  wedged  herself  next,  and  beside  her 

Was  Deacon  Munroe— that's  myself. 

The  meeting  was  soon  called  to  order. 

The  parson  looked  glum  as  a  text ; 
We  silently  stared  at  each  other, 

And  every  one  wondered  "What  next?" 


(458) 


HUMOROUS   READINGS. 


459 


When  straightway  uprose  Deacon  Hartley, 
His  voice  seemed  to  tremble  with  fear 

As  he  said  :  "Boy  and  man,  you  have  known  me, 
My  friends,  for  this  nigh  forty  year. 

"  And  you  scarce  may  expect  a  confession 

Of  error  from  me — but — you  know 
My  dearly  loved  wife  died  last  Christmas — 

It's  now  over  ten  months  ago. 
The  winter  went  by  long  and  lonely — 

But  the  spring-lime  crep'  forward  apace ; 
Tlie  farm  work  begun,  and  I  needed 

A  woman  about  the  old  place. 

"  My  children  were  wilder  than  rabbits, 

And  all  growing  worse  every  day  ; 
I  could  find  no  help  in  the  village, 

Although  I  was  willing  to  pay. 
I  declare  I  was  near  'bout  discouraged, 

And  everything  looked  so  forlorn. 
When  good  little  Patience  McAlpine 

Skipped  into  our  kitchen  one  morn. 

"  She  had  only  run  in  of  an  errand, 

But  she  laughed  at  our  woe-begone  plight, 
And  set  to  work  just  like  a  woman, 

A-putting  the  whole  place  to  right. 
And  though  her  own  folks  was  so  busy. 

And  illy  her  helpin'  could  spare, 
She'd  flit  in  and  out  like  a  sparrow, 

And  'most  every  day  she  was  there. 

"  So  the  summer  went  by  sort  o'  cheerful ; 

But  one  night  my  baby,  my  Joe, 
Was  restless  and  feverish,  and  woke  me, 

As  babies  will  often,  you  know. 
I  was  tired  with  my  day's  work,  and  sleepy. 

And  couldn't  no  way  keep  him  still ; 
So  at  last  I  grew  angry  and  spanked  him. 

And  then  he  screamed  out  with  a  will. 

' '  'Twas  just  then  I  heard  a  soft  rapping 

Away  at  the  half-open  door — 
And  then  little  Patience  McAlpine 

Stepped  shyly  across  the  white  floor. 
Says  she  :  '  I  thought  Josie  was  crj'ing ; 

I  guess  I'd  best  take  hjm  away — 
I  knew  you'd  be  getting  up  early 

To  go  to  the  marshes  for  hay, 

"  '  So  I  staid  here  to-night  to  get  breakfast — 

I  guess  he'll  be  quiet  with  me. 
Come,  baby,  kiss  papa,  and  tell  him 

What  a  nice  little  man  he  will  be.* 
She  was  bending  low  over  the  baby. 

And  saw  the  big  tears  on  his  cheek  ; 
But  her  face  was  so  near  to  my  whiskers 

I  daresn't  move  scarcely,  or  speak. 

"  Her  arms  were  both  holding  the  baby. 
Her  eyes  by  his  shoulder  was  hid — 
But  her  mouth  was  so  near  and  so  rosy 
That — I  kissed  her — ^that's  just  what  I  did." 


Then  down  sat  the  trembling  sinner : 

The  sisters  they  murmured  :  "  For  shame  ' " 

And  "  she  shouldn't  oughter  a  let  him  ; 
No  doubt  sAe  was  mostly  to  blame." 

When  slowly  uprose  Deacon  Pryor, 

"  Now,  brethren  and  sisters,"  he  said 
(And  we  knowed  then  that  suthin'  was  coming, 
And  we  sot  as  still  as  the  dead  :) 
"We've  heard  Brother  Hartley's  confession. 
And  I  speak  for  myself,  when  I  say, 
That  if  my  wife  was  dead,  and  my  children 
Were  all  growing  wuss  every  day  ; 

"And  if  my  house  needed  attention, 

And  Patience  McAlpine  should  come 
And  tidy  the  cluttered-up  kitchen, 

And  make  the  place  seem  more  like  home — 
And  if  I  was  tired  out  and  sleepy, 

And  my  baby  wouldn't  lie  still. 
But  cried  out  at  midnight  and  woke  me. 

As  babies,  we  know,  sometimes  will ; 

'  And  if  Patience  came  in  to  hush  him, 

And  'twas  all  as  our  good  brother  says, 
I  think,  friends — I  think  I  should  kiss  her. 

And  abide  by  the  consequences." 
Then  down  sat  the  elderly  deacon  ; 

The  younger  one  lifted  his  face, 
And  a  smile  rippled  over  the  meeting. 

Like  light  in  a  shadowy  place. 

Perhaps,  then,  the  matronly  sisters 

Remembered  their  far-away  youth. 
Or  the  daughters  at  home  by  their  firesides. 

Shrined  each  in  her  shy,  modest  truth. 
For  their  judgments  grew  gentle  and  kindly  ; 

And— well,  as  I  started  to  say, 
The  solemn  old  bells  in  the  steeple 

Were  ringing  a  bridal  to-day. 

N.  S.  Emerson. 


THE  SOFT  GUITAR. 

Scene:  Moonlight.    Beneath  the  lady's  window  app«areth  tha 
lover,  and  singeth,  with  guitar  accompaniment. 

Lover. 
PEN  thy  lattice,  O  lady  bright ! 
The  earth  lies  calm  in  the  fair  moonlight ; 
Gaze  on  the  glint  of  each  glancing  star. 
And  list  to  the  notes  of  my  soft  guitar. 

At  the  lady's  window  a  vision  shone — 
'Twas  the  lady's  head  with  a  night-cap  on. 

Lover. 
{In  ecsiacy.) 
See !  at  the  casement  appearing  now. 
With  lily  fingers  she  hides  her  brow. 
Oh,  weep  not — though  bitter  thy  sorrows  are, 
I  will  soothe  them  to  rest  with  my  soft  guitar. 


460 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


Then  the  lady  answered,  "Who's  going  to  weep? 
Go  'way  with  your  fiddle,  and  let  me  sleep." 

Lover. 

{Saddened,  but  still  hopeful.) 
Then  sleep,  dear  lady  :  thy  fringed  lids  close, 
Pinions  of  cherubim  fan  thy  repose, 
While  through  thy  casement,  slightly  ajar, 
Steal  the  sweet  notes  of  my  soft  guitar. 

Then  the  lady  her  "secret  pain  "  confessed 
With  the  plaintive  murmur,  "Oh,  give  us  a  rest !  " 

Lover. 
{Slightly  discouraged.) 
Chide  me  not  harshly,  O  lady  fair ! 
Bend  from  thy  lattice,  and  hear  my  prayer. 
Sighing  for  thee,  I  wander  afar. 
Mournfully  touching  my  soft  guitar. 

And  the  lady  answered :    "  You  stupid  thing, 
If  you've  got  the  catarrh,  stop  trying  to  sing  ! " 

Lover. 
{Filled  with  natural  and  righteous  indignation.) 
Cruel  but  fair  one,  thy  scorn  restrain ! 
Better  death's  quiet  than  thy  disdain. 
I  go  to  fall  in  some  distant  war, 
Bearing  in  battle  my  loved  guitar. 

Answered  the  lady  :    "  Well,  hurry  and  go  ! 
I'm  holding  the  slop-basin  ready  to  throw." 

Lover. 
{Making  immediate  preparations  to  depart.) 
False  one,  I  leave  thee  !    When  I'm  at  rest 
Still  shall  my  memory  haunt  thy  breast ; 
A  spectral  vision  thy  joy  shall  mar — 
A  skeleton  playing  a  soft  guitar  ! 

And  the  lady  cried,  in  a  scornful  tone, 
'  Old  skeleton,  go  it — and  play  it  alone .' " 

Then  the  lover  in  agony  roamed  afar — 
Fell  drunk  in  the  gutter,  and  smashed  his  guitar. 

P.  H.  BowNE. 


THE  KNIGHT  AND  THE  LADY. 

'HE  Lady  Jane  was  tall  and  slim, 
The  Lady  Jane  was  fair 
And  Sir  Thomas,  her  lord,  was  stout  of  limb. 
And  his  cough  was  short,  and  his  eyes  were 
dim. 
And  he  wore  green  "specs  "  with  a  tortoise  shell  rim. 
And  his  hat  was  remarkably  broad  in  the  brim, 
And  she  was  uncommonly  fond  of  him — 

And  they  were  a  loving  pair ! 
And  wherever  they  went,  or  wherever  they  came. 
Every  one  hailed  them  with  loudest  acclaim  ; 


Far  and  wide. 

The  people  cried, 
All  sorts  of  pleasure,  and  no  sort  of  pain, 
To  Sir  Thomas  the  good,  and  the  fair  Lady  Jane  ! 

Now  Sir  Thomas  the  good,  be  it  well  understood. 
Was  a  man  of  very  contemplative  mood — 
He  would  pour  by  the  hour,  o'er  a  weed  or  a  flower, 
Or  the  slugs,  that  came  crawling  out  after  a  shower ; 
Black  beetles,  bumble-bees,  blue-bottle  flies. 
And  moths,  were  of  no  small  account  in  his  eyes ; 
An  "industrious  flea,"  he'd  by  no  means  despise, 
While  an  "  old  daddy  long-legs,"  whose  long  legs  and 

thighs 
Passed  the  common  in  shape,  or  in  color,  or  size, 
He  was  wont  to  consider  an  absolute  prize. 
Giving  up,  in  short,  both  business  and  sport,  he 
Abandoned  himself,  tout  entier,  to  philosophy. 

Now  as  Lady  Jane  was  tall  and  slim. 

And  Lady  Jane  was  fair, 
And  a  good  many  years  the  junior  of  him. 
There  are  some  might  be  found  entertaining  a  notion. 
That  such  an  entire,  and  exclusive  devotion. 
To  that  part  of  science,  folks  style  entomology, 

Was  a  positive  shame. 

And,  to  such  a  fair  dame. 
Really  demanded  some  sort  of  apology  ; 
Ever  poking  his  nose  into  this,  and  to  that — 
At  a  gnat,  or  a  bat,  or  a  cat,  or  a  rat. 
At  great  ugly  things,  all  legs  and  wings, 
With  nasty  long  tails,  armed  with  nasty  long  stings  ; — 
And  eternally  thinking,  and  blinking,  and  winking, 
At  grubs — when  he  ought  of  her  to  be  thinking. 

But  no !  ah  no  !  'twas  by  no  means  so 
With  the  fair  Lady  Jane, 
Tout  au  contraire,  no  lady  so  fair. 
Was  e'er  known  to  wear  more  contented  an  air  ; 
And — let  who  would  call — every  day  she  was  there, 
Propounding  receipts  for  some  delicate  fare. 
Some  toothsome  conserve,  of  quince,  apple  or  pear. 
Or  distilling  strong  waters — or  potting  a  hare — 
Or  counting  her  spoons,  and  her  crockery  ware ; 
Enough  to  make  less  gifted  visitors  stare. 

Nay  more ;  don't  suppose 

With  such  doings  as  those 
This  account  of  her  merits  must  come  to  a  close  ; 
No ! — examine  her  conduct  more  closely,  you  11  find 
She  by  no  means  neglected  improving  her  mind ; 
For  there  all  the  while,  with  an  air  quite  bewitching. 
She  sat  herring-boning,  tambouring,  or  stitching. 
Or  having  an  eye  to  aflfairs  of  the  kitchen. 

Close  by  her  side* 

Sat  her  kinsman,  MacBride — 
Captain  Dugald  MacBride,  Royal  Scots  Fusiliers  ; — 
And  I  doubt  if  you'd  find,  in  the  whole  of  his  clan, 
A  more  highly  intelligent,  worthy  young  man  ; 

And  there  he'd  be  sitting, 

While  she  was  a-knitting, 


HUMOROUS   READINGS. 


461 


Reading  aloud,  with  a  very  grave  look, 
Some  very  "  wise  saw,"  from  some  very  good  book — 
No  matter  who  came, 
It  was  always  the  same. 
The  Captain  was  reading  aloud  to  the  dame. 
Till,  from  having  gone  through  half  the  books  on  the 

shelf, 
They  were  almost  as  wise  as  Sir  Thomas  himself. 

Well  it  happened  one  day — 

I  really  can't  say 
The  particular  month  ; — but  I  think  'twas  in  May, 
'Twas  I  know  in  the  spring-time,  when  "nature  looks 

gay," 

As  the  poet  observes — and  on  tree-top  and  spray, 
The  dear  little  dickey  birds  carol  away, 
That  the  whole  of  the  house  was  thrown  into  affright, 
For  no  soul  could  conceive  what  was  gone  with  the 
Knight. 

It  seems  he  had  taken 

A  light  breakfast — bacon, 
An  egg,  a  little  broiled  haddock — at  most 
A  round  and  a  half  of  some  hot  buttered  toast. 
With  a  slice  of  cold  sirloin  from  yesterday's  roast. 

But  no  matter  for  that — 

He  had  called  for  his  hat. 
With  the  brim  that  I've  said  was  so  broad  and  so  flat, 
And  his  "specs"  with  the  tortoise-shell  rim,  and  his 

cane. 
Thus  armed  he  set  out  on  a  ramble — a-lack  ! 
He  set  out,  poor  dear  soul ! — but  he  never  came  back  ! 
"  First  dinner  bell  "  rang 

Out  its  euphonous  clang 
At  five — folks  kept  early  hours  then — and  the  "  last " 
Ding-donged,  as  it  ever  was  wont,  at  half-past. 
Still   the    master  was   absent — the   cook    came    and 

said,  he 
Feared  dinner  would  spoil,  having  been  so  long  ready. 
That  the  puddings  her  ladyship  thought  such  a  treat 
He  was  morally  sure,  would  be  scarce  fit  to  eat ! 
Said  the  lady,  "  Dish  up !    Let  the  meal  be  served 

straight. 
And  let  two  or  three  slices  be  put  on  a  plate, 
And  kept  hot  for  Sir  Thomas." — Captain  Dugald  said 

grace, 
Then  set  himself  down  in  Sir  Thomas'  place. 

Wearily,  wearily,  all  that  night. 

That  live-long  night  did  the  hours  go  by ; 
And  the  Lady  Jane, 
In  grief  and  pain, 
She  sat  herself  down  to  cry  ! 
And  Captain  McBride, 
Who  sat  by  her  side, 
Though  I  really  can't  say  that  he  actually  cried, 

At  least  had  a  tear  in  his  eye  ! 
As  much  as  can  well  be  expected,  perhaps, 
From  "very  young  fellows,"  for  verj'  "  old  chaps." 


And  if  he  had  said 
What  he'd  got  in  his  head, 
'Twould  have  been,  "  Poor  old  Buffer,  he's  certainly 
dead ! " 

The  morning  dawned— and  the  next — and  the  next. 
And  all  in  the  mansion  were  still  perplexed  ; 

No  knocker  fell, 

His  approach  to  tell ; 
Not  so  much  as  a  ruhaway  ring  at  the  bell. 

Yet  the  sun  shone  bright  upon  tower  and  tree, 
And  the  meads  smiled  green  as  green  may  be. 
And  the  dear  little  dickey  birds  caroled  with  glee. 
And  the  lambs  in  the  park  skipped  merry  and  free. — 
Without,  all  was  joy  and  harmony  ! 

And  thus  'twill  be — ^nor  long  the  day — 
Ere  we,  like  him,  shall  pass  away  ! 
Yon  sun  that  now  our  bosoms  warms. 
Shall  shine — but  shine  on  other  forms  ; 
Yon  grove,  whose  choir  so  sweetly  cheers 
Us  now,  shall  sound  on  other  ears  ; 
The  joyous  lambs,  as  now,  shall  play, 
But  other  eyes  its  sports  survey  ; 
The  stream  we  loved  shall  roll  as  fair, 
The  flowery  sweets,  the  trim  parterre, 
Shall  scent,  as  now,  the  ambient  air ; 
The  tree  whose  bending  branches  bear 
The  one  loved  name — shall  yet  be  there — 
But  where  the  hand  that  carved  it  ?    Where  ? 

These  were  hinted  to  me  as  the  very  ideas 
Which  passed  through  the  mind  of  the  fair  Lady  Jane, 
As  she  walked  on  the  esplanade  to  and  again, 

With  Captain  MacBride, 

Of  course  at  her  side, 
Who  could  not  look  quite  so  forlorn — though  he  tried. 
An  "idea"  in  fact,  had  got  into  his  head. 
That  if ' '  poor  dear  Sir  Thomas  "  should  really  be  dead, 
It  might  be  no  bad  "  spec  "  to  be  there  in  his  stead, 
And  by  simply  contriving,  in  due  time,  to  wed 

A  lady  who  was  young  and  fair, 

A  lady  slim  and  tall. 
To  set  himself  down  in  comfort  there, 

The  lord  of  Tapton  Hall. 

Thinks  he,  "  We  have  sent 
Half  over  Kent, 
And  nobody  knows  how  much  money's  been  spent, 
Yet  no  one's  been  found  to  say  which  way  he  went ! 
Here's  a  fortnight  and  more  has  gone  by,  and  we've 

tried 
Every  plan  we  could  hit  on — and  had  him  well  cried, 
'  Missing  !  !     Stolen  or  Strayed, 
Lost  or  Mislaid, 
A  Gentleman  ; — middle-aged,  sober  and  staid  ; 
Stoops  slightly  ; — and  when  he  left  home  was  arrayed 
In  a  sad  colored  suit,  somewhat  dingy  and  frayed  ; 
Had  spectacles  on  with  a  tortoise-shell  rim, 
And  a  hat  rather  low  crowned,  and  broad  in  the  brim. 


462 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


Whoe'er  shall  bear, 

Or  send  him  with  care, 
(Right  side  uppermost)  home  ;  or  shall  give  notice 

where 
The  middle-aged  Gentleman  is  ;  or  shall  state 
Any  fact,  that  may  tend  to  throw  light  on  his  fate, 
To  the  man  at  the  turnpike,  called  Tappington  Gate, 
Shall  receive  a  reward  of  Five  Pounds  for  his  trouble. 
N.  B.  If  defunct,  the  Reward  will  be  double  ! ! ' 

"  Had  he  been  above  ground. 

He  must  have  been  found. 
No  ;  doubtless  he's  shot — or  he's  hanged — or   he's 
drowned  ! 

Then  his  widow — ay  !  ay  ! 

But  what  will  folks  say  ? — 
To  address  her  at  once,  at  so  early  a  day  ! 
Well — what  then — who  cares  ! — let  'em  say  what  they 
may." 

When  a  man  has  decided, 

As  Captain  MacBride  did, 
And  once  fully  made  up  his  mind  on  the  matter,  he 
Can't  be  too  prompt  in  unmasking  his  battery. 
He  began  on  the  instant,  and  vowed  that  her  eyes 
Far  exceeded  in  brilliance  the  stars  in  the  skies  ; 
That  her  lips  were  like  roses,  her  cheeks  were  like 

lilies ; 
Her  breath  had  the  odor  of  daffadowndillies  ! — 
With  a  thousand  more  compliments,  equally  true, 
Expressed  in  similitudes  equally  new  ! 

Then  his  left  arm  he  placed 

Around  her  jimp,  taper  waist — 
Ere  she  fixed  to  repulse  or  return  his  embrace, 
Up  Cfime  running  a  man  at  a  deuce  of  a  pace, 
With  that  very  peculiar  expression  of  face 
Which  always  betokens  dismay  or  disaster, 
Crying  out — 'twas  the  gard'ner — "Oh  ma'am!  we've 

found  master  ! !  " 
"Where!    where?"    screamed  the  lady;    and  echo 
screamed,  ' '  Where  ?  ' ' 

The  man  could  n't  say  "  there  !  " 

He  had  no  breath  to  spare. 
But  gasping  for  breath  he  could  only  respond 
By  pointing — he  pointed,  alas! — to  the  pond. 
'T  was  e'en  so  ;    poor  dear  Knight,  with  his  "  specs  " 

and  his  hat. 
He'd  gone  poking  his  nose  into  this  and  to  that ; 
When  close  to  the  side  of  the  bank,  he  espied 
An  uncommon  fine  tadpole,  remarkably  fat ! 

He  stooped ; — and  he  thought  her 

His  own ; — he  had  caught  her  ! 
Got  hold  of  her  tail — and  to  land  almost  brought  her, 
When — he  plumped  head  and  heels  into  fifteen  feet 
water  1 

The  Lady  Jane  was  tall  and  slim, 

The  Lady  Jane  was  fair, 
Alas  !  for  Sir  Thomas ! — she  grieved  for  him. 
As  she  saw  two  serving  men  sturdy  of  limb. 

His  body  between  them  bear  : 


She  sobbed  and  she  sighed,  she  lamented  and  cried, 

For  of  sorrow  brimful  was  her  cup; 
She  swooned,  and  I  think  she'd  have  fallen  down  and 
died, 

If  Captain  MacBride 
Had  n't  been  by  her  side 
With  the  gardener ;— they  both  their  assistance  supplied. 
And  managed  to  hold  her  up. 

But  when  she  "comes  to," 
Oh  1  't  is  shocking  to  view 
The  sight  which  the  corpse  reveals ! 
Sir  Thomas'  body. 
It  looked  so  odd — he 
Was  half  eaten  up  by  the  eels  ! 

His  waistcoat  and  hose. 

And  the  rest  of  his  clothes. 
Were  all  gnawed  through  and  through  ; 

And  out  of  each  shoe. 

An  eel  they  drew ; 
And  from  each  of  his  pockets  they  pulled  out  two ! 
And  the  gardener  himself  had  secreted  a  few. 

As  well  might  be  supposed  he'd  do. 
For,  when  he  came  running  to  give  the  alarm, 
He  had  six  in  the  basket  that  hung  on  his  arm. 

Good  Father  John  was  summoned  anon  ; 

Holy  water  was  sprinkled  and  little  bells  tinkled. 

And  tapers  were  lighted. 

And  incense  ignited, 
And  masses  were  sung,  and  masses  were  said. 
All  day,  for  the  quiet  repose  of  the  dead. 
And  all  night  no  one  thought  about  going  to  bed. 

But  Lady  Jane  was  tall  and  slim, 

And  Lady  Jane  was  fair. 
And  ere  morning  came,  that  winsome  dame 
Had  made  up  her  mind,  or — what's  much  the  same — 
Had  thought  about,  once  more  "  changing  her  name," 

And  she  said  with  a  pensive  air. 
To  Thompson  the  valet,  while  taking  away. 
When  supper  was  over,  the  cloth  and  the  tray, 
"  Eels  a  many  I've  ate  ;  but  any 

So  good  ne'er  tasted  before  ! — 
They're  a  fish  too,  of  which  I'm  remarkably  fond — 
Go — pop  Sir  Thomas  again  in  the  pond — 
Poor  dear ! — he'll  catch  us  some  tnore^ 

MORAL. 

All  middle-aged  gentlemen  let  me  advise, 

If  you're  married,  and  hav'nt  got  very  good  eyes. 

Don't  go  poking  about  after  blue  bottle  flies. 

If  you've  spectacles,  don't  have  a  tortoise-shell  rim 

And  don't  go  near  the  water— unless  you  can  swim. 

Married  ladies,  especially  such  as  are  fair, 
Tall  and  slim,  I  would  next  recommend  to  beware. 
How,  on  losing  one  spouse,  they  give  way  to  despair ; 
But  let  them  reflect,  there  are  fish,  and  no  doubt  on't. 
As  good  iji  the  river,  as  ever  came  otit  on't. 
Richard  Harris  Barham  (  Thomas  Ingoldsby,  Esq). 


HUMOROUS   READINGS. 


463 


THE  BATTLE   OF  THE  KEGS 

This  ballad  was  occasioned  by  a  real  incident.  Certain  machines, 
in  the  form  of  kegs,  charged  with  gunpowder,  were  sent  down 
the  river  to  annoy  the  British  shipping  then  at  Philadelphia.  The 
danger  of  these  machines  being  discovered,  the  British  manned 
the  wharves  and  shipping,  and  discharged  their  small  arms  and 
cannons  at  every  thing  they  saw  floating  in  the  river  during  the 
ebb  tide. 

,  ALLANTS,  attend  and  hear  a  friend 
Trill  forth  harmonious  ditty  ; 
Strange  things  I'll  tell  which  late  befell 
In  Philadelphia  city. 

'Twas  early  day,  as  poets  say, 

Just  when  the  sun  was  rising, 
A  soldier  stood  on  a  log  of  wood, 

And  saw  a  thing  surprising. 

As  in  amaze  he  stood  to  gaze, 

The  truth  can't  be  denied,  sir. 
He  spied  a  score  of  kegs  or  more 

Come  floating  down  the  tide,  sir. 

A  sailor^ too,  in  jerkin  blue, 

This  strange  appearance  viewing, 

First  rubbed  his  eyes,  in  great  surprise, 
Then  said  some  mischiefs  brewing. 

These  kegs,  I'm  told,  the  rebels  hold 

Packed  up  Hke  pickled  herring  ; 
And  they're  come  down  to  attack  the  town, 

In  this  new  way  of  ferrying. 

The  soldier  flew,  the  sailor  too, 

And  scared  almost  to  death,  sir. 
Wore  out  their  shoes,  to  spread  the  news. 

And  ran  till  out  of  breath,  sir. 

Now  up  and  down  throughout  the  town 

Most  frantic  scenes  were  acted  ; 
And  some  ran  here,  and  others  there, 

Like  men  almost  distracted. 

Some  fire  cried,  which  some  denied, 

But  said  the  earth  had  quaked  ; 
And  girls  and  boys,  with  hideous  noise. 

Ran  through  the  streets  half  naked. 

From  sleep  Sir  William  starts  upright. 

Awaked  by  sut  h  a  clatter  ; 
He  rubs  both  eyes,  and  boldly  cries, 

For  God's  sake,  what's  the  matter? 

At  his  bedside  he  then  espied 

Sir  Erskine  at  command,  sir; 
Upon  one  foot  he  had  one  boot, 

And  th'  other  in  his  hand,  sir. 

'Arisfe,  arise,"  Sir  Erskine  cries, 
"  The  rebels — more's  the  pity — 
Without  a  boat  are  ah  afloat, 
And  ranged  before  the  city. 


"  The  motley  crew,  in  vessels  new. 
With  Satan  for  their  guide,  sir. 
Packed  up  in  bags,  or  wooden  kegs, 
Come  driving  down  the  tide,  sir. 

"Therefore  prepare  for  bloody  war. 
These  kegs  must  all  be  routed. 
Or  surely  we  despised  shall  be. 
And  British  courage  doubted." 

The  royal  band  now  ready  stand, 

All  ranged  in  dread  array,  sir, 
With  stomach  stout  to  see  it  out, 

And  make  a  bloody  day,  sir. 

The  cannons  roar  from  shore  to  shore, 

The  small  arms  make  a  rattle  ; 
Since  wars  began  I'm  sure  no  man 

E'er  saw  so  strange  a  battle. 

The  rebel  dales,  the  rebel  vales. 

With  rebel  trees  surrounded ; 
The  distant  wood,  the  hills  and  floods. 

With  rebel  echoes  sounded. 

The  fish  below  swam  to  and  fro, 

Attacked  from  every  quarter  ; 
Why  sure,  thought  they,  what  is  to  pay 

'Mongst  folks  above  the  water  ? 

The  kegs,  'tis  said,  though  strongly  made 

Of  rebel  staves  and  hoops,  sir, 
Could  not  oppose  their  powerful  foes. 

The  conquering  British  troops,  sir. 

From  morn  to  night  these  men  of  might 

Displayed  amazing  courage  ; 
And  when  the  sun  was  fairly  down. 

Retired  to  sup  their  porridge. 

A  hundred  men  with  each  a  pen. 

Or  more,  upon  my  word,  sir, 
It  is  most  true  would  be  too  few 

Their  valor  to  record,  sir. 

Such  feats  did  they  perform  that  day 

Against  these  wicked  kegs,  sir. 
That  years  to  come,  if  they  get  home. 
They'll  make  their  boast  and  brags,  sir. 

Francis  Hopkinson. 


"PLEASE  TO  RING  THE  BELLE." 

f  LL  tell  you  a  story  that's  not  in  Tom  Moore  : 
Young  Love  likes  to  knock  at  a  pretty  girl's 

door ; 
So  he  called  upon  Lucy— 'twas  just  ten  o'clock- 
Like  a  spruce  single  man,  with  a  smart  double  knock. , 

Now,  a  handmaid,  whatever  her  fingers  be  at. 

Will  run  like  a  puss  when  she  hears  a  rat-tat : 

So  Lucy  ran  up — and  in  two  seconds  more 

Had  questioned  the  stranger  and  answered  the  door. 


464 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


The  meeting  was  bliss  ;  but  the  parting  was  woe  ; 
For  the  moment  will  come  when  such  comers  must  go  : 
So  she  kissed  him,   and    whispered — poor  innocent 

thing — 
"The  next  time  you  come,  love,  pray  come  with  a 

ring," 

Thomas  Hood. 


A  SOCIABLE! 

*HEY  carried  pie  to  the  parson's  house, 
And  scattered  the  floor  with  crumbs, 
And  marked  the  leaves  of  his  choicest  books 
"f  With  the  prints  of  their  greasy  thumbs. 

They  piled  his  dishes  high  and  thick 

With  a  lot  of  unhealthy  cake. 
While  they  gobbled  the  buttered  toast  and  rolls 

Which  the  parson's  wife  did  make. 

They  hung  around  Clytie's  classic  neck 

Their  apple-parings  for  sport. 
And  every  one  laughed  when  a  clumsy  lout 

Spilled  his  tea  on  the  piano-forte. 

Next  day  the  parson  went  down  on  his  knees. 

With  his  wife — but  not  to  pray  ; 
O  no  ;  't  was  to  scrape  the  grease  and  dirt 

From  the  carpet  and  stairs  away. 


SHACOB'S  LAMENT. 

XCOOSE  me  if  I  shed  some  tears, 

Und  wipe  my  nose  avay  ; 

Und  if  a  lump  vos  in  my  troat, 

It  comes  up  dere  to  shtay. 

My  sadness  I  shall  now  unfoldt, 

Und  if  dot  tale  of  woe 
Don'd  do  some  Dutchmans  any  good, 

Den  I  don't  pelief  I  know. 

You  see,  I  fall  myself  in  love, 

Und  effery  night  I  goes 
Across  to  Brooklyn  by  dot  pridge, 

All  dressed  in  Sunday  clothes. 

A  vidder  vomans  vos  der  brize. 
Her  husband  he  vos  dead  ; 

Und  all  alone  in  this  colt  vorldt 
Dot  vidder  vos,  she  said. 

Her  heart  for  love  vos  on  der  pine, 

Und  dot  I  like  to  see  ; 
Und  all  der  time  I  hoped  dot  heart 

Vos  on  der  pine  for  me. 

I  keeps  a  butcher  shop,  you  know, 

Und  in  a  stocking  stout, 
I  put  avay  my  gold  and  bills, 

Und  no  one  gets  him  oudt. 


If  in  der  night  some  bank  cashier 

Goes  skipping  off  mit  cash, 
I  shleep  so  sound  as  nefer  vos, 

Vhile  rich  folks  go  to  shmash. 

I  court  dot  vidder  sixteen  months, 

Dot  vidder  she  courts  me, 
Und  vhen  I  says  :  "  Vill  you  be  mine  ?" 

She  says  :  "  You  bet  I'll  be  !  " 

Ve  vos  engaged — oh  !  blessed  fact ! 

I  squeeze  dot  dimpled  hand  ; 
Her  head  upon  my  shoulder  lays, 

Shust  like  a  bag  of  sand. 

"  Before  der  vedding  day  vos  set," 

She  vispers  in  mine  ear, 
"  I  like  to  say  I  haf  to  use 

Some  cash,  my  Jacob,  dear. 

"  I  owns  dis  house  and  two  big  farms, 
Und  ponds  und  railroad  stock  ; 
Und  up  in  Yonkers  I  bossess 
A  grand  big  peesness  block. 

"  Der  times  vos  dull,  my  butcher  boy, 
Der  market  vos  no  good, 
Und  if  I  sell " — I  squeezed  her  handt 
To  show  I  understood. 

Next  day — oxcoose  my  briny  tears — 
Dot  shtocking  took  a  shrink  ; 

I  counted  out  twelve  hundred  in 
Der  cleanest  kind  o'  chink. 

Und  later,  by  two  days  or  more, 

Dot  vidder  shlopes  avay  ; 
Und  leaves  a  note  behindt  for  me 

In  vhich  dot  vidder  say  : 

"Dear  Shake: 

Der  rose  vos  redt, 

Der  violet  blue — 
You  see  I've  left, 
Und  you're  left,  too!" 


THE  DECLARATION. 

WAS  late,  and  the  gay  company  was  gone. 
And  light  lay  soft  on  the  deserted  room 
From  alabaster  vases,  and  a  scent 
■^       Of  orange-leaves,  and  sweet  verbena  came 
Through  the  unshuttered  window  on  the  air, 
And  the  rich  pictures  with  their  dark  old  tints, 
Hung  like  a  twilight  landscape,  and  all  things 
Seemed  hushed  into  a  slumber.     Isabel, 
The  dark-eyed,  spiritual  Isabel 
Was  leaning  on  her  harp,  and  I  had  staid 
To  whisper  what  I  could  not  when  the  crowd 
Hung  on  her  look  like  worshippers.     I  knelt, 
And  with  the  fervor  of  a  lip  unused 
To  the  cold  breath  of  reason,  told  my  love. 


HUMOROUS   READINGS. 


465 


There  was  no  answer,  and  I  took  the  hand 
That  rested  on  the  strings,  and  pressed  a  kiss 
Upon  it  unforbidden — and  again 
Besought  her,  that  this  silent  evidence 
That  I  was  not  indifferent  to  her  heart, 
Might  have  the  seal  of  one  sweet  syllable. 
I  kissed  the  small  white  fingers  as  I  spoke, 
And  she  withdrew  them  gently,  and  upraised 
Her  forehead  from  its  resting-place,  and  looked 
Earnestly  on  me — She  had  been  asleep ! 

Nathaniel  Parker  Willis. 


PAT'S  LOVE   LETTER. 

'T'S  Patrick  Dolin,  myself  and  no  other. 

That's  after  informin'  you,  without  any  bother. 
That  your  own  darlin'  self  has  put  me  heart  in  a 
blaze 

And  made  me  your  swateheart  the  rest  of  me  days. 
And  now  I  sits  down  to  write  ye  this  letter, 
To  tell  how  I  loves  ye,  as  none  can  love  better. 
Mony's  the  day,  sure,  since  first  I  got  smitten 
Wid  yer  own  purty  face,  that's  bright  as  a  kitten's, 
And  yer  illegant  figger,  that's  just  the  right  size ; 
Faith  !    I'm  all  over  in  love  wid  ye,  clear  up  till  me 

eyes. 
You  won't  think  me  desavin',  or  tellin'  a  lie, 
If  I  tell  who's  in  love  wid  me,  just  ready  to  die. 
There's  Bridget  McCregan,  full  of  coketish  tricks, 
Keeps  flatterin'  me  pride,  to  get  me  heart  in  a  fix  ; 
And  Bridget,  you  know,  has  great  expectations 
From  her  father  that's  dead,  and  lots  of  relations. 
Then  there's  Biddy  O'Farrel,  the  cunningest  elf, 
Sings  "  Patrick,  me  darlin',"  and  that  means  meself. 
I  might  marry  them  both,  if  I  felt  so  inclined. 
But  there's  no  use  talking  of  the  likes  of  their  kind. 
I  trates  them  both  alike,  without  impartiality. 
And  maintains  meself  sure  on  the  ground  of  neutrality. 
On  me  knees,  Helen,  darlint,  I  ask  your  consent 
"  For  better  or  worse,"  without  asking  a  cent. 
I'd  do  anything  in  the  world — anything  you  would  say, 
If  you'd  be  Mistress  Dolin  instead  of  Miss  Day. 
I'd  save  all  me  money  and  buy  me  a  house. 
Where  nothing  should  tease  us  so  much  as  mouse  ; 
And  you'll  hear  nothing  else  from  year  out  to  year  in. 
But  swate  words  of  kindness  from  Patrick  Dolin. 
Then — if  ye  should  die— forgive  me  the  thought, 
I'd  always  behave  as  a  dacent  man  ought. 
I'd  spend  all  me  days  in  wailing  and  crying, 
And  wish  for  nothin'  so  much  as  jist  to  be  dying. 
Then  you'd  see  on  marble  slabs,  reared  up  side  by 

side, 
"  Here  lies  Patrick  Dolin,  and  Helen,  his  bride." 
Yer  indulgence,  in  conclusion,  on  me  letter  I  ask. 
For  to  write  a  love  letter  is  no  aisy  task  ; 
I've  an  impediment  in  me  speech,  as  me  letter  shows, 
And  a  cold  in  me  head  makes  me  write  through  me 
nose. 

(30) 


Please  write  me  a  letter,  in  me  great-uncle's  care. 
With  the  prescription  upon  it,  "Patrick  Doling   Es- 

quare." 
"  In  haste,"  write  in  big  letters,  on  the  outside  of  the, 

cover. 
And  believe  me  forever,  your  distractionate  lover. 
Written  wid  me  own  hand, 

his 

Patrick  x  Dolin. 

mark. 


TOM  DARLING. 

'OM  DARLING  was  a  darling  Tom, 
(Excuse  all  vulgar  puns ;) 
A  type  of  California's  bright 
"f*  Rising  and  setting  suns. 

His  father  was  an  austere  man — 

An  oyster  man  was  he. 
Who  opened  life  by  opening 

The  shell  fish  of  the  sea  ; 

But  hearing  of  a  richer  clime, 

He  took  his  only  son. 
And  came  where  golden  minds  are  lost, 

While  golden  mines  are  won. 

They  hoped  to  fill  their  pockets  from 
Rich  pockets  in  the  ground  ; 

And  'midst  the  boulders  of  the  hills. 
None  bolder  could  be  found. 

For  though  a  mining  minor,  Tom 

Was  never  known  to  shirk  ; 
And  while  with  zeal  he  worked  his  claim, 

His  father  claimed  his  work. 

Time's  record  on  his  brow  now  showed 

A  fair  and  spotless  page  ; 
And,  as  his  age  became  him  well, 

He  soon  became  of  age. 

Thinking  that  he  was  up  to  all 

The  California  tricks. 
He  now  resolved  to  pick  his  way 

Without  the  aid  of  picks. 

In  less  than  eighteen  circling  moons 

Two  fortunes  he  had  made ; 
One  by  good  luck  at  trade  in  stock, 

And  one  by  stock  in  trade. 

With  health  and  wealth  he  now  could  live 

Upon  the  easy  plan  ; 
While  everybody  said  of  course. 

He  was  a  fine  young  man. 

But  Thomas  fell,  and  sadly  too. 
Who  of  his  friends  would  'thought  it ! 

He  ran  for  office,  and  alas  ! 
For  him  and  his — he  caught  it. 


466 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


Mixing  no  more  with  sober  men, 

He  found  his  morals  fleeing  ; 
And  being  of  a  jovial  turn. 

He  turned  a  jovial  being. 

With  governor  and  constable 

His  cash  he  freely  spends  ; 
From  constable  to  governor, 

He  had  a  host  of  friends. 

But  soon  he  found  he  could  not  take, 

As  his  old  father  would, 
A  little  spirits,  just  enough 

To  do  his  spirits  good. 

In  councils  with  the  patriots 

Upon  affairs  of  State, 
Setting  no  bars  to  drinking,  he 

Soon  lost  his  upright  gait. 

His  brandy  straightway  made  him  walk 

In  very  crooked  ways  ; 
While  lager  beer  brought  to  his  view 

A  bier  and  span  of  grays. 

The  nips  kept  nipping  at  his  purse — 

(Two  bits  for  every  dram), 
While  clear  champagne  produced  in  him 

A  pain  that  was  no  sham. 

His  cups  of  wine  were  followed  by 

The  doctor's  painful  cup  ; 
Each  morning  found  him  getting  low 

As  he  was  getting  up. 

Thus  uselessly,  and  feebly  did 

His  short  existence  flit. 
Till  in  a  drunken  fight  he  fell 

Into  a  drunken  fit. 

The  doctors  came,  but  here  theif  skill 

They  found  of  no  avail ; 
They  all  agreed,  what  ailed  poor  Tom 

Was  politics  and  ale. 

L.  F.  Wells. 


f 


IS  IT  ANYBODY'S  BUSINESS? 

S  it  anybody's  business, 

If  a  gentleman  should  choose 
To  wait  upon  a  lady. 

If  the  lady  don't  refuse  ? 
Or,  to  speak  a  little  plainer, 

That  the  meaning  all  may  know, 
Is  it  anybody's  business 
If  a  lady  has  a  beau  ? 

Is  it  anybody's  business 
When  that  gentleman  doth  call, 

Or  when  he  leaves  the  lady. 
Or  if  he  leaves  at  all  ? 


Or  is  it  necessary 

That  the  curtain  should  be  drawn, 
To  save  from  further  trouble 

The  outside  lookers-on  ? 

Is  it  anybody's  business. 

But  the  lady's,  if  her  beau 
Rideth  out  with  other  ladies. 

And  does  n't  let  her  know  ? 
Is  it  anybody's  business. 

But  the  gentleman's,  if  she 
Should  accept  another  escort, 

Where  he  does  n't  chance  to  be  ? 

If  a  person's  on  the  sidewalk. 

Whether  great  or  whether  small. 
Is  it  anybody's  business 

Where  that  person  means  to  call  ? 
Or  if  you  see  a  person 

While  he's  calling  anywhere, 
Is  it  any  of  your  business 

What  his  business  may  be  there  ? 

The  substance  of  our  query, 

Simply  stated,  would  be  this : 
Is  it  anybody's  business 

What  another's  business  is  ? 
Whether  't  is  or  whether  't  is  n't 

We  should  really  like  to  know, 
For  we  are  certain,  if  it  is  n't. 

There  are  some  who  make  it  so. 


0 


FIRST  APPEARANCE  IN  TYPE. 

H,  here  it  is  !  I'm  famous  now  ; 

An  author  and  a  poet. 

It  really  is  in  print.     Hurrah ! 

How  proud  I'll  be  to  show  it. 
And  gentle  Anna  I  what  a  thrill 
Will  animate  her  breast, 
To  read  these  ardent  lines,  and  know. 
To  whom  they  are  addressed. 

Why,  bless  my  soul !  here's  something  wrong ; 

What  can  the  paper  mean, 

By  talking  of  the  "  graceful  brook," 

That  "ganders  o'er  the  green  ? " 

And  here's  a  /  instead  of  r. 

Which  makes  it  "tippling  rill," 

We'll  seek  the  "shad"  instead  of  "shade," 

And  "hell"  instead.of  "hill." 

"  Thy  looks  so  " — what  ? — I  recollect, 
'Twas  "sweet,"  and  then  'twas  "kind"  ; 
And  now,  to  think — the  stupid  fool — 
For  "  bland  "  has  printed  "  blind." 
Was  ever  such  provoking  work  ? 
('Tis  curious,  by  the  by, 
That  any  thing  is  rendered  blind 
By  giving  it  an  i.) 


HUMOROUS   READINGS. 


467 


The  color  of  the  "  rose"  is  "nose," 
"  Affection  "  is  "  affliction." 

I  wonder  if  the  likeness  holds 

In  fact  as  well  as  fiction  ? 
"  Thou  art  a  friend"    The  r  is  gone ; 

WTioever  could  have  deemed 

That  such  a  trifling  thing  could  change 

A  friend  into  a  fiend. 

"Thou  art  the  same,"  is  rendered  shame," 
It  really  is  too  bad  ! 
And  here  because  an  i  is  out 
My  lovely  "maid"  is  mad. 
They  drove  her  blind  by  poking  in 
An  z— a  process  new — 
And  now  they've  gouged  it  out  again, 
And  made  her  crazy,  too. 

I'll  read  no  more.     What  shall  I  do  ? 

I'll  never  dare  to  send  it. 

The  paper's  scattered  far  and  wide, 

'Tis  now  too  late  to  mend  it. 

Oh,  fame  !  thou  cheat  of  human  life, 

Why  did  I  ever  write ! 

I  wish  my  poem  had  been  burnt, 

Before  it  saw  the  light. 

Was  ever  such  a  horrid  hash, 

In  poetry  or  prose  ? 

I've  said  she  was  a  "  fiend  ! "  and  praised 

The  color  of  her  "nose." 

I  wish  I  had  the  printer  here 

About  a  half  a  minute, 

I'd  bang  him  to  his  heart's  content. 

And  with  an  h  begin  it. 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 


10 


SORROWS  OF  WERTHER. 

ERTHER  had  a  love  for  Charlotte 
Such  as  words  could  never  utter ; 
Would  you  know  how  first  he  met  her  ? 
She  was  cutting  bread  and  butter. 

Charlotte  was  a  married  lady, 
And  a  moral  man  was  Werther, 

And  for  all  the  wealth  of  Indies 
Would  do  nothing  for  to  hurt  her. 

So  he  sighed  and  pined  and  ogled, 
And  his  passion  boiled  and  bubbled, 

Till  he  blew  his  silly  brains  out, 
And  no  more  was  by  it  troubled. 

Charlotte,  having  seen  his  body 

Borne  before  her  on  a  shutter. 
Like  a  well-conducted  person. 

Went  on  cutting  bread  and  butter. 

William  Makepeace  Thackeray, 


THE  CONFESSION. 

HERE'S  somewhat  on  my  breast,  father. 

There's  somewhat  on  my  breast ! 
The  live-long  day  I  sigh,  father. 

At  night  I  cannot  rest ; 
I  cannot  take  my  rest,  father. 

Though  I  would  fain  do  so, 
A  weary  weight  oppresseth  me — 

The  weary  weight  of  woe  ! 

'Tis  not  the  lack  of  gold,  father. 

Nor  lack  of  worldly  gear ; 
My  lands  are  broad  and  fair  to  see, 

My  friends  are  kind  and  dear  ; 
My  kin  are  leal  and  true,  father. 

They  mourn  to  see  my  grief. 
But,  oh  !  'tis  not  a  kinsman's  hand 

Can  g^ve  my  heart  relief ! 

'Tis  not  that  Janet's  false,  father, 

'Tis  not  that  she's  unkind ; 
Though  busy  flatterers  swarm  around, 

I  know  her  constant  mind. 
'Tis  not  the  coldness  of  her  heart 

That  chills  my  laboring  breast — 
It* s  that  confounded  cucumber 

late,  and  can't  digest! 


THE  NEWCASTLE  APOTHECARY. 

a  MEMBER  of  the  ^sculapian  line  lived  at 
Newcastle-upon-Tyne :  no  man  could  better 
gild  a  pill,  or  make  a  bill,  or  mix  a  draught, 
or  bleed,  or  blister ;  or  draw  a  tooth  out  of 
your  head  ;  or  chatter  scandal  by  your  bed ;  or  spread 
a  plaster.  His  fame  full  six  miles  round  the  country 
ran  ;  in  short,  in  reputation  he  was  solus  :  all  the  old 
women  called  him  "a  fine  man!"  His  name  was 
Bolus. 

Benjamin  Bolus,  though  in  trade  (which  oftentimes 
will  genius  fetter),  read  works  of  fancy,  it  is  said,  and 
cultivated  the  belles  lettres.  Bolus  loved  verse ; 
and  took  so  much  delight  in't,  all  his  prescriptions  he 
resolved  to  write  in't.  No  opportunity  he  e'er  let  pass 
of  writing  the  directions  on  his  labels  in  dapper  coup- 
lets, like  Gay's  Fables,  or  rather  like  the  lines  in 
Hudibras. 

He  had  a  patient  lying  at  death's  door,  some  three 
miles  from  the  town — it  might  be  four — to  whom,  one  , 
evening  Bolus  sent  an  article— in  pharmacy  that's  called 
cathartical :  and  on  the  label  of  the  stuff  he  wrote  this 
verse,  which  one  would  think  was  clear  enough,  and 
terse — 

"When  taken, 
To  be  well  shaken." 

Next  morning  early  Bolus  rose,  and  to  the  patient's 
house  he  goes,  upon  his  pad,  who  a  vile  trick  of  stumb- 
Img  had ;  but  he  arrived,  and  gave  a  tap,  between  a 
single  and  a  double  rap.    The  servant  lets  him  in,  with 


468 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


dismal  face,  long  as  a  courtier's  out  of  place — portend- 
ing some  disaster.  John's  countenance  as  rueful  looked 
and  grim,  as  if  the  apothecary  had  physicked  him,  and 
not  his  master. 

"  Well,  how's  the  patient  ? "  Bolus  said.  John  shook 
his  head.  "  Indeed  ! — hum  ! — ha  ! — that's  very  odd  ! — 
he  took  the  draught?" — John  gave  a  nod. — "Well? 
how?  what  then?— speak  out,  you  dunce!"  "Why 
then,"  says  John,  "we  shook  him  once." — "Shook 
him!  how?  how?"  friend  Bolus  stammered  out. — 
"We jolted  him  about." 

"What!  shake  the  patient,  man! — why  that  won't 
do."  "No,  sir,"  quoth  John,  "and  so  we  gave  him 
two."  "Two  shakes!  O  luckless  verse!  'Twould 
make  the  patient  worse!"  "  It  did  so,  sir,  and  so  a 
third  we  tried." — "Well,  and  what  then?" — "Then, 
sir,  my  master  died ! " 

George  Colman. 


THE  WELL  OF  ST.  KEYNE. 

In  the  parish  of  St.  Neots,  Cornwall,  is  a  well,  arched  over 
with  the  robes  of  four  kinds  of  trees — withy,  oak,  elm,  and  ash — 
and  dedicated  to  St.  Keyne.  The  reported  virtue  of  the  water  is 
this,  that,  whether  husband  or  wife  first  drank  thereof,  they  get 
the  mastery  thereby  — Thomas  Fuller. 


Q 


WELL  there  is  in  the  west  country, 

And  a  clearer  one  never  was  seen; 
There  is  not  a  wife  in  the  west  country 
But  has  heard  of  the  well  of  St.  Keyne. 


An  oak  and  an  elm-tree  stand  beside. 
And  behind  does  an  ash-tree  grow, 

And  a  willow  from  the  bank  above 
Droops  to  the  water  below. 

A  traveler  came  to  the  well  of  St.  Keyne  ; 

Pleasant  it  was  to  his  eye,    ' 
For  from  cock-crow,  he  had  been  traveling, 

And  there  was  not  a  cloud  in  the  sky. 

He  drank  of  the  water  so  cool  and  clear, 

For  thirsty  and  hot  was  he, 
And  he  sat  down  upon  the  bank, 

Under  the  willow-tree. 

There  came  a  man  from  the  neighboring  town, 

At  the  well  to  fill  his  pail ; 
On  the  well-side  he  rested  it, 

And  bade  the  stranger  hail. 

Now  art  thou  a  bachelor,  stranger?"  quoth  he, 

"  For  an  if  thou  hast  a  wife, 
The  happiest  draught  thou  hast  drank  this  day 

That  ever  thou  didst  in  thy  life. 

'  Or  has  your  good  woman,  if  one  you  have, 

In  Cornwall  ever  been  ? 
For  an  if  she  have,  I'll  venture  my  life 
She  has  drank  of  the  well  of  St.  Keyne." 


"  I  have  left  a  good  woman  who  never  was  here," 

The  stranger  he  made  reply  ; 
"  But  that  my  draught  should  be  better  for  that, 

I  pray  you  answer  me  why." 

"St.  Keyne,"  quoth  the  countryman,  "many  a  time 
Drank  of  this  crystal  well. 
And  before  the  angel  summoned  her 
She  laid  on  the  water  a  spell. 

"If  the  husband  of  this  gifted  well 

Shall  drink  before  his  wife, 

A  happy  man  henceforth  is  he, 

For  he  shall  master  for  life. 

"But  if  the  wife  should  drink  of  it  first. 
Heaven  help  the  husband  then  !  " 
The  stranger  stooped  to  the  well  of  St.  Keyne, 
And  drank  of  the  waters  again. 

"You  drank  of  the  well,  I  warrant,  betimes  ? " 
He  to  the  countryman  said. 
But  the  countryman  smiled  as  the  stranger  spake, 
And  sheepishly  shook  his  head. 

"  I  hastened,  as  soon  as  the  wedding  was  done. 
And  left  my  wife  in  the  porch, 
But  i'  faith,  she  had  been  wiser  than  me, 
For  she  took  a  bottle  to  church." 

Robert  Southey. 


SALLY  SIMPKIN'S  LAMENT. 

"  He  left  his  body  to  the  sea. 
And  made  a  shark  his  legatee." 

Bryan  and  Persnne. 

WHAT  is  that  comes  gliding  in. 
And  quite  in  middling  haste? 
It  is  the  picture  of  my  Jones, 
And  painted  to  the  waist. 

"  It  is  not  painted  to  the  life. 

For  Where's  the  trousers  blue? 
O  Jones,  my  dear ! — O  dear !  my  Jones, 
What  is  become  of  you  ?  " 

"  O  Sally  dear,  it  is  too  true — 
The  half  that  you  remark 
Is  come  to  say  my  other  half 
Is  bit  oflT  by  a  shark  ! 

"  O  Sally,  sharks  do  things  by  halves, 
Yet  most  completely  do  ! 
A  bite  in  one  place  seems  enough, 
But  I've  been  bit  in  two. 

"You  know  I  once  was  all  your  own, 
But  now  a  shark  must  share ! 
But  let  that  pass — for  now  to  you 
I'm  neither  here  nor  there. 

"Alas  !  death  has  a  strange  divorce 
Effected  in  the  sea  : 


HUMOROUS   READINGS. 


469 


It  has  divided  me  from  you, 
And  even  me  from  me  ! 

"Don't  fear  my  ghost  will  walk  o'  nights 
To  haunt  as  people  say  ; 
My  ghost  can'i  walk,  for,  O,  my  legs 
Are  many, leagues  away  ! 

"  Lx>rd  !  think  when  I  am  swimming  round, 
And  looking  where  the  boat  is, 
A  shark  just  snaps  away  a  half, 
Without '  a  quarter's  notice.' 

"  One  half  is  here,  the  other  half 
Is  near  Columbia  placed ; 
O  Sally,  I  have  got  the  whole 
Atlantic  for  my  waist. 

•'  But  now,  adieu — a  long  adieu ! 
I've  solved  death's  awful  riddle, 
And  would  say  more,  but  I  am  doomed 
To  break  off  in  the  middle  ! " 

Thomas  Hood. 


THE  GHOST. 

IS  thirty  years  since  Abel  Law, 
A  short,  round-favored,  merry 
Old  soldier  of  the  Revolutionary 
'f        War, 
Was  wedded  to 
A  most  abominable  shrew. 
The  temper,  sir,  of  Shakespeare's  Catharine 
Could  no  more  be  compared  with  hers, 
Than  mine 
With  Lucifer's. 

Her  eyes  were  like  a  weasel's  ;  she  had  a  harsh 
Face,  like  a  cranberry  marsh, 
All  spread 

With  spots  of  white  and  red  ; 
Hair  of  the  color  of  a  wisp  of  straw, 
And  a  disposition  like  a  cross-cut  saw. 
The  appellation  of  this  lovely  dame 
Was  Nancy ;  don't  forget  the  name. 

Her  brother  David  was  a  tall. 
Good-looking  chap,  and  that  was  all ; 
One  of  your  great,  big  nothings,  as  we  say 
Here  in  Rhode  Island,  picking  up  old  jokes 
And  cracking  them  on  other  folks. 
Well,  David  undertook  one  night  to  play 
The  ghost,  and  frighten  Abel,  who. 
He  knew, 

Would  be  returning  from  a  journey  through 
A  grove  of  forest  wood 
That  stood 
Below 
The  house  some  distance — half  a  mile  or  so. 

With  a  long  taper 
Cap  of  white  paper, 


Just  made  to  cover 

A  wig,  nearly  as  large  over 

As  a  corn-basket,  and  a  sheet 

With  both  ends  made  to  meet 

Across  his  breast, 

(The  way  in  which  ghosts  are  always  dressed,) 

He  took 

His  station  near 

A  huge  oak-tree. 

Whence  he  could  overlook 

The  road  and  see 

Whatever  might  appear. 

It  happened  that  about  an  hour  before,  friend  Abel 
Had  left  the  table 

Of  an  inn,  where  he  had  made  a  halt, 
With  horse  and  wagon. 
To  taste  a  flagon 
Of  malt 

Liquor,  and  so  forth,  which,  being  done. 
He  went  on, 

Caring  no  more  for  twenty  ghosts, 
Than  if  they  were  so  many  posts. 

David  was  nearly  tired  of  waiting  ; 
His  patience  was  abating  ; 
At  length,  he  heard  the  careless  tones 
Of  his  kinsman's  voice, 
And  then  the  noise 
Of  wagon-wheels  among  the  stones. 
Abel  was  quite  elated,  and  was  roaring 
With  all  his  might,  and  pouring 
Out,  in  great  confusion. 

Scraps  of  old  songs  made  in  "  The  Revolution." 
His  head  was  full  of  Bunker  Hill  and  Trenton  ; 
And  jovially  he  went  on, 
Scaring  the  whip-poor-wills  among  the  trees 
With  rhymes  like  these  •.—ISin^^s.} 

"  See  the  Yankees  leave  the  hill. 
With  baggernetts  declining. 
With  lopped-down  hats  and  rusty  guns, 
And  leather  aprons  shining. 
See  the  Yankees— Whoa  !    Why,  what  is  that?  " 
Said  Abel,  staring  like  a  cat. 
As  slowly  on  the  fearful  figure  strode 
Into  the  middle  of  the  road. 

"  My  conscience,  what  a  suit  of  clothes ! 
Some  crazy  fellow,  I  suppose. 
Hallo !  friend,  what's  your  name  ?  by  the  powers  o 

gin, 
Thafs  a  strange  dress  to  travel  in." 
' '  Be  silent,  Abel ;  for  I  now  have  come 
To  read  your  doom  ; 

Then  hearken,  while  your  fate  I  now  declare. 
I  am  a  spirit — " 

"  I  suppose  you  are ; 
But  you'll  not  hurt  me,  and  I'll  tell  you  why  : 
Here  is  a  fact  which  you  cannot  deny  ; — 


470 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


All  spirits  must  be  either  good 

Or  bad — that's  understood — 

And  be  you  good  or  evil,  I  am  sure 

That  I'm  secure. 

If  a  good  spirit,  I  am  safe.     If  evil — 

And  I  don't  know  but  you  may  be  the  devil — 

If  that's  the  case,  you'll  recollect,  I  fancy. 

That  I  am  married  to  your  sister  Nancy  !  " 

FAITHLESS  SALLY  BROWN. 

OUNG  BEN  he  was  a  nice  young  man, 
A  carpenter  by  trade  ; 
And  he  fell  in  love  with  Sally  Brown, 
That  was  a  lady's  maid. 

But  as  they  fetched  a  walk  one  day. 
They  met  a  press-gang  crew  ; 

And  Sally  she  did  faint  away. 
Whilst  Ben  he  was  brought  to. 

The  boatswain  swore  with  wicked  words. 

Enough  to  shock  a  saint, 
That  though  she  did  seem  in  a  fit, 

'Twas  nothing  but  a  feint. 

"  Come,  girl,"  said  he,  "  hold  up  your  head, 
He'll  be  as  good  as  me  ; 
For  when  your  swain  is  in  our  boat, 
A  boatswain  he  will  be." 

So  when  they'd  made  their  game  of  her, 

And  taken  off  her  elf. 
She  roused,  and  found  she  only  was 

A  coming  to  herself. 

"  And  is  he  gone,  and  is  he  gone?" 
She  cried,  and  wept  outright : 

"  Then  I  will  to  the  water  side. 
And  see  him  out  of  sight." 

A  waterman  came  up  to  her, 
"  Now,  young  woman,"  said  he, 
"  If  you  weep  on  so,  you  will  make 
Eye-water  in  the  sea." 

"Alas  !  they've  taken  my  beau  Ben 
To  sail  with  old  Benbow  ;  " 
And  her  woe  began  to  run  afresh. 
As  if  she'd  said  Gee  woe  ! 

Says  he,  "  They've  only  taken  him 
To  the  Tender  ship,  you  see  ; " 
"The  Tender  ship,"  cried  Sally  Brown, 
"  What  a  hardship  that  must  be  ! 

"  Oh  !  would  I  were  a  mermaid  now, 
For  then  I'd  follow  him  ; 
But  oh  ! — I'm  not  a  fish-woman. 
And  so  I  cannot  swim. 

"Alas  !  I  was  not  born  beneath 
The  Virgin  and  the  Scales, 
So  I  must  curse  my  cruel  stars, 
And  walk  about  in  Wales." 


Now  Ben  had  sailed  to  many  a  place, 

That's  underneath  the  world  ; 
But  in  two  years  the  ship  came  home. 

And  all  her  sails  were  furled. 

But  when  he  called  on  Sally  Brown, 

To  see  how  she  went  on, 
He  found  she'd  got  another  Ben, 

Whose  Christian  name  was  John. 

"O  Sally  Brown,  O  Sally  Brown, 
How  could  you  serve  me  so  ? 
I've  met  with  many  a  breeze  before. 
But  never  such  a  blow." 

Then  reading  on  his  'bacco  box, 

He  heaved  a  bitter  sigh, 
And  then  began  to  eye  his  pipe, 

And  then  to  pipe  his  eye. 

And  then  he  tried  to  sing  "  All's  Well," 

But  could  not  though  he  tried  ; 
His  head  was  turned,  and  so  he  chewed 

His  pigtail  till  he  died. 

His  death,  which  happened  in  his  berth. 

At  forty-odd  befell  : 

They  went  and  told  the  sexton,  and 

The  sexton  toU'd  the  bell. 

Thomas  Hood. 

OF  A  CERTAIN  MAN. 

HERE    was    (not    certain    when)     a    certain 
preacher, 
That    never   learned,    and   yet   became   a 
"^  teacher, 

Who  having  read  in  Latin  thus  a  text 
Of  erai  quidam  homo,  much  perplexed, 
He  seemed  the  same  with  study  great  to  scan. 
In  English  thus,  There  was  a  certain  man. 
"But  now,"  quoth  he,  "good  people,  note  you  this 
He  saith  there  was,  he  doth  not  say  there  is  ; 
For  in  these  days  of  ours  it  is  most  plain 
Of  promise,  oath,  word,  deed,  no  man's  certain  ; 
Yet  by  my  text  you  see  it  comes  to  pass 
That  surely  once  a  certain  man  there  was  ; 
But,  yet,  I  think,  in  all  your  Bible  no  man 
Can  find  this  text,  There  was  a  certain  woman:' 
Sir  John  Harrington. 


K 


TO  MY  NOSE. 

iNOWS  he  that  never  took  a  pinch. 

Nosey,  the  pleasure  thence  which  flows  ? 
Knows  he  the  titillating  joys 
Which  my  nose  knows  ? 

0  nose,  I  am  as  proud  of  thee 
As  any  mountain  of  its  snows  , 

1  gaze  on  thee,  and  feel  that  pride 

A  Roman  knows ! 
Alfred  A.  Forrester  {Alfred  CrowquiU), 


HUMOROUS   READINGS. 


471 


THE  PROUD  MISS  MACBRIDE. 

A  LEGEND  OF  GOTHAM. 

TERRIBLY  proud  was  Miss  MacBride, 
The  very  personification  of  pride, 
J     As  she  minced  along  in  fashion's  tide, 
Adown  Broadway — on  the  proper  side — 
When  the  golden  sun  was  setting  ; 
There  was  pride  in  the  head  she  carried  so  high, 
Pride  in  her  lip,  and  pride  in  her  eye, 
And  a  world  of  pride  in  the  very  sigh 
That  her  stately  bosom  was  fretting ! 

O,  terribly  proud  was  Miss  MacBride, 
Proud  of  her  beauty,  and  proud  of  her  pride. 
And  proud  of  fifty  matters  beside — 

That  wouldn't  have  borne  dissection  ; 
Proud  of  her  wit,  and  proud  of  her  walk. 
Proud  of  her  teeth,  and  proud  of  her  talk. 
Proud  of  "  knowing  cheese  from  chalk," 

On  a  very  slight  inspection ! 

Proud  abroad,  and  proud  at  home. 
Proud  wherever  she  chanced  to  come — 
When  she  was  glad,  and  when  she  was  glum  ; 

Proud  as  the  head  of  a  Saracen 
Over  the  door  of  a  tippling-shop  ! — 
Proud  as  a  duchess,  proud  as  a  fop, 
"  Proud  as  a  boy  with  a  brand-new  top," 

Proud  beyond  comparison ! 

And  yet  the  pride  of  Miss  MacBride, 
Although  it  had  fifty  hobbies  to  ride, 

Had  really  no  foundation  ; 
But,  like  the  fabrics  that  gossips  devise — 
Those  single  stories  that  often  arise 
And  grow  till  they  reach  a  four-story  size — 

Was  merely  a  fancy  creation ! 

Her  birth,  indeed,  was  uncommonly  high — 
For  Miss  MacBride  first  opened  her  eye 
Through  a  skylight  dim,  on  the  light  of  the  sky; 

But  pride  is  a  curious  passion — 
And  in  talking  about  her  wealth  and  worth, 
She  always  forgot  to  mention  her  birth 

To  people  of  rank  and  fashion  ! 

Of  all  the  notable  things  on  earth, 
The  queerest  one  is  pride  of  birth 

Among  our  "  fierce  democracie  ! " 
A  bridge  across  a  hundred  years. 
Without  a  prop  to  save  it  from  sneers — 
Not  even  a  couple  of  rotten  peers — 
A  thing  for  laughter,  fleers,  and  jeers. 

Is  American  aristocracy ! 

English  and  Irish,  French  and  Spanish, 
German,  Italian,  Dutch  and  Danish, 
Crossing  their  veins  until  they  vanish 

In  one  conglomeration  ! 
So  subtle  a  tangle  of  blood,  indeed. 


No  Heraldry  Harvey  will  ever  succeed 
In  finding  the  circulation. 

Depend  upon  it,  my  snobbish  friend. 
Your  family  thread  you  can't  ascend, 
Without  good  reason  to  apprehend 
You  may  find  it  waxed,  at  the  farther  end, 

By  some  plebeian  vocation  ! 
Or,  worse  than  that,  your  boasted  line 
May  end  in  a  loop  of  stronger  twine, 

That  plagued  some  worthy  relation ! 

But  Miss  MacBride  had  something  beside 
Her  lofty  birth  to  nourish  her  pride — 
For  rich  was  the  old  paternal  MacBride, 

According  to  public  rumor : 
And  he  lived  "  up  town,"  in  a  splendid  square. 
And  kept  his  daughter  on  dainty  fare, 
And  gave  her  gems  that  were  rich  and  rare. 
And  the  finest  rings  and  things  to  wear, 

And  feathers  enough  to  plume  her. 

A  thriving  tailor  begged  her  hand, 

But  she  gave  "the  fellow "  to  understand. 

By  a  violent  manual  action, 
She  perfectly  scorned  the  best  of  his  clan, 
And  reckoned  the  ninth  of  any  man 

An  exceedingly  vulgar  fraction  ! 

Another,  whose  sign  was  the  golden  boot. 
Was  mortified  with  a  bootless  suit. 

In  a  way  that  was  quite  appalling ; 
For,  though  a  regular  sutor  by  trade. 
He  wasn't  a  suitor  to  suit  the  maid, 
Who  cut  him  off  with  a  saw — and  bade 
"  The  cobbler  keep  to  his  calling ! " 

A  young  attorney,  of  winning  grace, 
Was  scarce  allowed  to  "open  his  face," 
Ere  Miss  MacBride  had  closed  his  case 

With  true  judicial  celerity ; 
For  the  lawyer  was  poor,  and  "  seedy  "  to  boot. 
And  to  say  the  lady  discarded  his  suit. 

Is  merely  a  double  verity  ! 

The  last  of  those  who  came  to  court, ' 

Was  a  lively  beau,  of  the  dapper  sort, 

"Without  any  visible  means  of  support," 

A  crime  by  no  means  flagrant 
In  one  who  wears  an  elegant  coat. 
But  the  very  point  on  which  they  vote 

A  ragged  fellow  "a  vagrant .' " 

Now  dapper  Jim  his  courtship  plied 

(I  wish  the  fact  could  be  denied) 

With  an  eye  to  the  purse  of  the  old  MacBride, 

And  really  "  nothing  shorter  ! " 
For  he  said  to  himself,  in  his  greedy  lust 
"Whenever  he  dies— as  die  he  must— 
And  >-ields  to  Heaven  his  vital  trust, 
He's  very  sure  to  '  come  down  with  his  dust,' 

In  behalf  of  his  only  daughter." 


472 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


And  the  very  magnificent  Miss  MacBride, 
Half  in  love,  and  half  in  pride, 

Quite  graciously  relented ; 
And,  tossing  her  head,  and  turning  her  back, 
No  token  of  proper  pride  to  lack — 
To  be  a  bride,  without  the  "  Mac," 

With  much  disdain,  consented ! 

Old  John  MacBride,  one  fatal  day, 
Became  the  unresisting  prey 

Of  fortune's  undertakers  ; 
And  staking  all  on  a  single  die. 
His  foundered  bark  went  high  and  dry 

Among  the  brokers  and  breakers ! 

But,  alas,  for  the  haughty  Miss  MacBride, 
'Twas  such  a  shock  to  her  precious  pride ! 
She  could  n't  recover,  although  she  tried 

Her  jaded  spirits  to  rally  ; 
'T  was  a  dreadful  change  in  human  affairs. 
From  a  place  "  up  town  "  to  a  nook  "  up  stairs," 

From  an  avenue  down  to  an  alley  ! 

'T  was  little  condolence  she  had,  God  wot, 
From  her  "troops  of  friends,"  who  hadn't  forgot 

The  airs  she  used  to  borrow ! 
They  had  civil  phrases  enough,  but  yet 
'Twas  plain  to  see  that  their  " deepest  regret" 

Was  a  different  thing  from  sorrow  ! 

And  one  of  those  chaps  who  make  a  pun, 
As  if  it  were  quite  legitimate  fun 
To  be  blazing  away  at  every  one 
With  a  regular,  double-loaded  gun — 

Remarked  that  moral  transgression 
Always  brings  retributive  stings 
To  candle-makers  as  well  as  kings  ; 
For  "  making  light  of  cereous  things  " 

Was  a  very  ze/jV^-ed  profession ! 

And  vulgar  people — the  saucy  churls- 
Inquired  about  "the  price  of  pearls," 

And  mocked  at  her  situation  : 
''  She  wasn't  ruined — they  ventured  to  hope — 
Because  she  was  poor,  she  needn't  mope  ; 
Few  people  were  better  off  for  soap, 

And  that  was  a  consolation !  " 

And  to  make  her  cup  of  woe  run  over, 
Her  elegant,  ardent  plighted  lover 

Was  the  very  first  to  forsake  her ; 
"  He  quite  regretted  the  step,  't  was  true  — 
The  lady  had  pride  enough  '  for  two,' 
But  that  alone  would  never  do 

To  quiet  the  butcher  and  baker ! " 

And  now  the  unhappy  Miss  MacBride — 
The  merest  ghost  of  her  early  pride — 
Bewails  her  lonely  position  ; 


Cramped  in  the  very  narrowest  niche, 

Above  the  poor,  and  below  the  rich — 

Was  ever  a  worse  condition  ! 

MORAL. 

Because  you  flourish  in  worldly  affairs, 
Don't  be  haughty,  and  put  on  airs. 

With  insolent  pride  of  station  ! 
Don't  be  proud,  and  turn  up  your  nose 
At  poorer  people  in  plainer  clothes, 
But  learn,  for  the  sake  of  your  mind's  repose, 
That  wealth  's  a  bubble  that  comes — and  goes  ! 
And  that  all  proud  flesh,  wherever  it  grows, 

Is  subject  to  irritation  I 

John  Godfrey  Saxk. 


WIDOW  BEDOTT  TO  ELDER  SNIFFLES. 


REVEREND  sir,  I  do  declare 
It  drives  me  most  to  frenzy, 
To  think  of  you  a  lying  there 
Down  sick  with  influenzy. 

A  body'd  thought  it  was  enough 
To  mourn  your  wive's  departer, 

Without  sich  trouble  as  this  ere 
To  come  a  follerin'  arter. 

But  sickness  and  affliction 

Are  sent  by  a  wise  creation, 
And  always  ought  to  be  underwent 

By  patience  and  resignation. 

O,  I  could  to  your  bedside  fly. 

And  wipe  your  weeping  eyes, 
And  do  my  best  to  cure  you  up. 

If  't  wouldn't  create  surprise. 

It's  a  world  of  trouble  we  tarry  in. 

But,  Elder,  don't  despair  ; 
That  you  may  soon  be  movin'  again 

Is  constantly  my  prayer. 

Both  sick  and  well,  you  may  depend 

You'll  never  be  forgot 
By  your  faithful  and  affectionate  friend, 

Priscilla  Pool  Bedott. 

Frances  Miriam  Whitcher. 


TO  THE  "SEXTANT." 

SEXTANT  of  the  meetin  house,  wich  sweeps 
And  dusts,  or  is  supposed  to  I   and  makes 

fires, 
And  lites  the  gas,  and  sumtimes  leaves  a 
screw  loose. 


HUMOROUS   READINGS. 


473 


in  wich  case  it  smells  orful,  worse  than  lamp  ile  ; 
And  wrings  the  bel  and  toles  it  when  men  dyts, 
to  thegrief  of  survivin  pardners,  and  sweeps  paths 
And  for  the  servusses  get  $ioo  per  annum, 
Wich  them  that  thinks  deer,  let  'em  try  it ; 
Gettin  up  before  starlite  in  all  wethers  and 
Kindlin  fires  when  the  wether  is  as  cold 
As  zero,  and  like  as  not  green  wood  for  kindling 
i  would  n't  be  hired  to  do  it  for  ho  sum, 
But  O  Sextant !  there  are  i  kermoddity 
Wich 's  more  than  gold,  wich  doant  cost  nothin. 
Worth  more  than  anything  except  the  sole  of  man  ! 
i  mean  pewer  Are,  Sextant,  i  mean  pewer  are  ! 

0  it  is  plenty  out  of  doors,  so  plenty  it  doant  no 
What  on  airth  to  dew  with  itself,  but  flys  about 
Scatterin  leaves  and  bloin  off  men's  hatts  ! 

in  short,  it's  jest  "fre  as  are  "  out  dores, 
But  O  Sextant,  in  our  church  its  scarce  as  buty, 
Scarce  as  bank  bills,  when  agints  beg  for  mischuns, 
Wich  some  say  is  purty  offten  (taint  nothin  to  me 

wat  I  give  aint  nothin  to  nobody)  but,  O  Sextant 
U  shet  500  men,  wimmin,  and  children, 
Speshally  the  latter,  up  in  a  tite  place, 
And  every  i  on  em  brethes  in  and  out,  and  out  and  in» 
Say  50  times  a  minnit,  or  i  million  and  a  half  breths 

an  our. 
Now  how  long  will  a  church  ful  of  are  last  at  that  rate, 

1  ask  you — say  15  minits — and  then  wats  to  be  did  ? 
Why  then  "you  must  brethe  it  all  over  agin, 

And  then  agin,  and  so  on  till  each  has  took  it  down 

At  least  ID  limes,  and  let  it  up  agin,  and  wats  more 

The  same  individoal  don't  have  the  priviledge 

of  brethin  his  own  are,  and  no  ones  else, 

Each  must  take  whatever  comes  to  him. 

O  Sextant,  doant  you  no  our  lungs  is  bellusses. 

To  bio  the  fierof  life,  and  keep  it  from  goin  out ; 

and  how  can  bellusses  bio  without  wind  ? 

And  aint  wind  are?  i  put  it  to  your  conschens. 

Are  is  the  same  to  us  as  milk  to  babies, 

Or  water  is  to  fish,  or  pendlums  to  clox, 

Or  roots  and  airbs  unto  an  injun  doctor. 

Or  little  pills  unto  an  omepath, 

Or  boys  to  gurls.    Are  is  for  us  to  brethe. 

What  signifies  who  preaches  if  i  cant  brethe  ? 

Wats  Pol?    Wats  Pollus  to  sinners  who  are  ded  ? 

Ded  for  want  of  breth,  why  Sextant,  when  we  dy 

Its  only  coz  we  cant  brethe  no  more,  thats  all. 

And  now  O  Sextant,  let  me  beg  of  you 

To  let  a  little  are  into  our  church. 

(Pewer  are  is  sertain  proper  for  the  pews) 

And  do  it  weak  days,  and  Sundays  tew, 

It  aint  much  trouble,  only  make  a  hole  . 

And  the  are  will  come  of  itself ; 

( It  luvs  to  come  in  where  it  can  git  warm) 

And  O  how  it  will  rouze  the  people  up. 

And  sperrit  up  the  preacher,  and  stop  garps, 

And  yawns  and  figgits,  as  effectooal 

As  wind  on  the  dry  boans  the  Profit  tells  of. 

Arabella  M.  Willson. 


ffl 


MY  LORD  TOMNODDY. 

Y  Lord  Tomnoddy  got  up  one  day ; 
It  was  half  after  two. 
He  had  nothing  to  do, 
So  his  lordship  rang  for  his  cabriolet. 


Tiger  Tim 

Was  clean  of  limb. 
His  boots  were  polished,  his  jacket  was  trim  ; 
With  a  very  smart  tie  in  his  smart  cravat. 
And  a  smart  cockade  on  the  top  of  his  hat ; 
Tallest  of  boys,  or  shortest  of  men, 
He  stood  in  his  stockings  just  four  foot  ten  : 
And  he  asked  as  he  held  the  door  on  the  swing, 
"  Pray,  did  your  Lordship  please  to  ring?" 

My  Lord  Tomnoddy  he  raised  his  head. 
And  thus  to  Tiger  Tim  he  said, 
"  Malibran's  dead, 
Duvernay's  fled, 
Taglioni  has  not  yet  arrived  in  her  stead  : 
Tiger  Tim,  come  tell  me  true. 
What  may  a  nobleman  find  to  do  ?" 

Tim  looked  up  and  Tim  looked  down. 
He  paused,  and  he  put  on  a  thoughtful  frown, 
And  he  held  up  his  hat  and  he  peeped  in  the  crown, 
He  bit  his  lip,  and  he  scratched  his  head, 
He  let  go  the  handle,  and  thus  he  said. 
As  the  door,  released,  behind  him  banged  : 
"  An't  please  you,  my  Lord,  there's  a  man  to  be 
hanged." 

My  Lord  Tomnoddy  jumped  up  at  the  news; 
"Run  to  M'Fuze, 

And  Lieutenant  Tregooze, 
And  run  to  Sir  Carnaby  Jenks,  of  the  Blues. 

Rope-dancers  a  score 

I've  seen  before — 
Madame  Sacchi,  Antonio,  and  Master  Black-more : 

But  to  see  a  man  swing 

At  the  end  of  a  string. 
With  his  neck  in  a  noose,  will  be  quite  a  new  tiling  1" 
My  Lord  Tomnoddy  stepped  into  his  cab — 
Dark  rifle  green,  with  a  liriing  of  drab  ; 

Through  street,  and  through  square. 

His  high-trotting  mare, 
Like  one  of  Ducrow's,  goes  pawing  the  air, 
Adown  Piccadilly  and  Waterloo  Place 
Went  the  high-trotting  mare  at  a  very  quick  pace  ; 

She  produced  some  alarm. 

But  did  no  great  harm, 
Save  frightening  a  nurse  with  a  child  on  her  arm. 

Spattering  with  clay 

Two  urchins  at  play. 
Knocking  down — very  much  to  the  sweeper's  dismay — 
An  old  woman  who  wouldn't  get  out  of  the  way. 

And  upsetting  a  stall 

Near  Exeter  Hall, 
Which  made  all  the  pious  Church-mission  folks  squall ; 


474 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


But  eastward  afar, 

Through  Temple  Bar, 
My  Lord  Tomnoddy  directs  his  car ; 

Never  heeding  their  squalls. 

Or  their  calls,  or  their  bawls, 
He  passes  by  Waithman's  Emporium  for  shawls, 
And,  merely  just  catching  a  glimpse  of  St.  Paul's, 

Turns  down  the  Old  Bailey, 

Where  in  front  of  the  jail,  he 
Pulls  up  at  the  door  of  the  gin-shop,  and  gaily 
Cries,  "  What  must  I  fork  out  to-night,  my  trump. 
For  the  whole  first-floor  of  the  Magpie  and  Stump? " 

The  clock  strikes  twelve — it  is  dark  midnight — 
Yet  the  Magpie  and  Stump  is  one  blaze  of  light. 

The  parties  are  met ; 

The  tables  are  set ; 
There  is   "punch,"   "cold  without,''''   "  hot  witAin," 
"heavy  wet," 

Ale-glasses  and  jugs. 

And  rummers  and  mugs. 
And  sand  on  the  floor,  without  carpets  or  rugs, 

Cold  fowl  and  cigars. 

Pickled  onions  in  jars, 
Welsh  rabbits  and  kidneys — rare  work  for  the  jaws — 
And  very  large  lobsters,  with  very  large  claws  ; 

And  there  is  M'Fuze, 

And  Lieutenant  Tregooze, 
And  there  is  Sir  Camaby  Jenks,  of  the  Blues, 

All  come  to  see  a  man  "  die  in  his  shoes  ! " 

The  clock  strikes  One  ! 

Supper  is  done, 
And  Sir  Carnaby  Jenks  is  full  of  his  fun, 
Singing  "Jolly  companions  every  one  !" 

My  Lord  Tomnoddy 

Is  drinking  gin-toddy, 
And  laughing  at  every  thing,  and  every  body. 

The  clock  strikes  Two  !  and  the  clock  strikes  Three  ! 
— "Who  so  merry,  so  merry  as  we?" 

Save  Captain  M'Fuze, 

Who  is  taking  a  snooze, 
While  Sir  Camaby  Jenks  is  busy  at  work. 
Blacking  'Jlis  ttose  with  a  piece  of  burnt  cork. 

The  clock  strikes  Four ! 

Round  the  debtor's  door 
Are  gathered  a  couple  of  thousand  or  more ; 

As  many  await 

At  the  press-yard  gate, 
Till  slowly  its  folding  doors  open,  and  straight 
The  mob  divides,  and  between  their  ranks 
A  wagon  comes  loaded  with  posts  and  with  planks. 

The  clock  strikes  Five ! 

The  Sheriflfe  arrive. 
And  the  crowd  is  so  great  that  the  street  seems  alive  ; 

But  Sir  Carnaby  Jenks 

Blinks  and  winks. 
As  a  candle  burns  down  in  the  socket,  and  sinks. 


Lieutenant  Tregooze 

Is  dreaming  of  Jews, 
And  acceptances  all  the  bill-brokers  refuse  ; 

My  Lord  Tomnoddy 

Has  drunk  all  his  toddy, 
And  just  as  dawn  is  beginning  to  peep. 
The  whole  of  the  party  are  fast  asleep. 

Sweetly,  oh  !  sweetly,  -the  morning  breaks, 

With  roseate  streaks. 
Like  the  first  faint  blush  on  a  maiden's  cheeks. 
It  seemed  that  the  mild  and  clear  blue  sky 
Smiled  upon  all  things  far  and  nigh, 
On  all — save  the  wretch  condemned  to  die. 
Alack  !  that  ever  so  fair  a  sun 
As  that  which  its  course  has  now  begun, 
Should  rise  on  such  a  scene  of  misery — 
Should  gild  with  rays  so  light  and  free 
That  dismal,  dark-frowning  gallows-tree  ! 
And  hark  ! — a  sound  comes,  big  with  fate  ; 
The  clock  from  St.  Sepulchre's  tower  strikes^ — Eight !-», 
List  to  that  low  funereal  bell : 
It  is  tolling,  alas  !  a  living  man's  knell — 
And  see — from  forth  that  opening  door 
They  come  ! — He  steps  that  threshold  o'er 
Who  never  shall  tread  upon  threshold  more, 
— God  !  'tis  a  fearsome  thing  to  see 
That  pale,  wan  man's  mute  agony, 
The  glare  of  that  wild,  despairing  eye, 
Now  bent  on  the  crowd,  now  turned  to  the  sky, 
As  though  'twere  scanning,  in  doubt  and  in  fear, 
The  path  of  the  spirit's  unknown  career; 
Those  pinioned  arms,  those  hands  that  ne'er 
Shall  be  lifted  again,  not  even  in  prayer ; 
That  heaving  chest !— Enough — 'tis  done ! 
The  bolt  has  fallen  ! — the  spirit  is  gone — 
For  weal  or  for  woe  is  known  but  to  One  ! — 
— Oh  !  'twas  a  fearsome  sight !— Ah  me  ! 
A  deed  to  shudder  at,  not  to  see. 
Again  that  clock  !  'tis  time,  'tis  time  ! 
The  hour  is  past ;— with  its  earliest  chime 
The  chord  is  severed,  its  lifeless  clay 
By  "dungeon  villains "  is  borne  away  : 
Nine  ! — 'twas-the  last  concluding  stroke  ! 
And  then  my  Lord  Tomnoddy  awoke  ! 
And  Tregooze  and  Sir  Carnaby  Jenks  arose, 
And  Captain  M'Fuze,  with  the  black  on  his  nose  : 
And  they  stared  at  each  other,  as  much  as  to  say 
"  Hollo  !  Hollo  ! 

Here's  a  rum  go ! 
Why  Captain  ! — my  Lord ! — Here's  the  dickens  to  pay ! 
The  fellow's  been  cut  down  and  taken  away  ! — 

What's  to  be  done  ? 

We've  missed  all  the  fun  ! — 
Why  they'll  laugh  at  and  quiz  us  all  over  the  town. 
We  are  all  of  us  done  so  uncommonly  brown  !  " 

What  was  to  be  done  ?— 't  was  perfectly  plain 
That  they  could  not  well  hang  the  man  over  again. 


HUMOROUS  READINGS. 


475 


What  was  to  be  done  ! — The  man  was  dead ! 
Nought  could  be  done — nought  could  be  said ; 
So — my  Lord  Tomnoddy  went  home  to  bed  ! 
Richard  Harris  Barham  ( Thomas  Ingoldsby,  Esq)^ 


DARIUS  GREEN  AND  HIS  FLYING-MACHINE. 

'  F  ever  there  lived  a  Yankee  lad, 
Wise  or  otherwise,  good  or  bad, 
Who,  seeing  the  birds  fly,  didn't  jump 
With  flapping  arms  from  stake  or  stump. 
Or,  spreading  the  tail 
Of  his  coat  for  a  sail, 
i  ake  a  soaring  leap  from  post  or  rail, 
And  wonder  why 
He  couldn't  fly, 
And  flap  and  flutter  and  wish  and  try — 
If  ever  you  knew  a  country  dunce 
Who  didn't  try  that  as  often  as  once, 
All  I  can  say  is,  that's  a  sign 
He  never  would  do  for  a  hero  of  mine. 

An  aspiring  genius  was  D.  Green  : 

The  son  of  a  farmer,  age  fourteen ; 

His  body  was  long  and  lank  and  lean — 

Just  right  for  flying,  as  will  be  seen  ; 

He  had  two  eyes  as  bright  as  a  bean, 

And  a  freckled  nose  that  grew  between, 

A  little  awry — for  I  must  mention 

That  he  had  riveted  his  attention 

Upon  his  wonderful  invention. 

Twisting  his  tongue  as  he  twisted  the  strings, 

And  working  his  face  as  he  worked  the  wings, 

And  with  every  turn  of  gimlet  and  screw 

Turning  and  screwing  his  mouth  round  too^ 

Till  his  nose  seemed  bent 

To  catch  the  scent. 
Around  some  comer,  of  new-baked  pies. 
And  his  wrinkled  cheeks  and  his  squinting  eyes 
Grew  puckered  into  a  queer  grimace, 
That  made  him  look  very  droll  in  the  face, 

And  also  very  wise. 
And  wise  he  must  have  been,  to  do  more 
Than  ever  a  genius  did  before, 
Excepting  Daedalus  'of  yore 
And  his  son  Icarus,  who  wore 

Upon  their  backs 

Those  wings  of  wax 
He  had  read  of  in  the  old  almanacs. 
Darius  was  clearly  of  the  opinion 
That  the  air  is  also  man's  dominion, 
And  that,  with  paddle  or  fin  or  pinion. 

We  soon  or  late  shall  navigate 
The  azure  as  now  we  sail  the  sea. 
The  thing  looks  simple  enough  to  me  ; 

And  if  you  doubt  it. 
Hear  how  Darius  reasoned  about  it. 

"  The  birds  can  fly  an'  why  can't  I  ? 

Must  we  give  in,"  says  he  with  a  grin, 


"That  the  bluebird  an'  phcebe 

Are  smarter  'n  we  be  ? 
Jest  fold  our  hands  an'  see  the  swaller 
An'  blackbird  an'  catbird  beat  us  holler? 
Doos  the  little  chatterin',  sassy  wren. 
No  bigger  'n  my  thumb,  know  more  than  men  ? 

Just  show  me  that ! 

Ur  prove  't  the  bat 
Hez  got  more  brains  than's  in  my  hat. 
An'  I'll  back  down,  an*  not  till  then  !  " 
He  argued  further :  "  Nur  I  can't  see 
What's  th'  use  o'  wings  to  a  bumble-bee, 
Fur  to  git  a  livin'  with,  more'n  to  me  ; — 

Ain't  my  business 

Important's  his'n  is  ? 

That  Icarus 

Made  a  perty  muss—; 
Him  an'  his  daddy  Daedalus 
They  might  'a'  knowed  wings  made  o'  wax 
Wouldn't  stand  sun-heat  an'  hard  whacks. 

I'll  make  mine  o'  luther, 

Ur  suthin'  ur  other." 

And  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  tinkered  and  planned : 

"  But  I  ain't  goin'  to  show  my  hand 

To  nummies  that  never  can  understand 

The  fust  idee  that's  big  an'  grand." 

So  he  kept  his  secret  from  all  the  rest, 

Safely  buttoned  within  his  vest ; 

And  in  the  loft  above  the  shed 

Himself  he  locks,  with  thimble  and  thread 

And  wax  and  hammer  and  buckles  and  screws 

And  all  such  things  as  geniuses  use ; — 

Two  bats  for  patterns,  curious  fellows  ! 

A  charcoal-pot  and  a  pair  of  bellows ; 

Some  wire,  and  several  old  umbrellas ; 

A  carriage-cover,  for  tail  and  wings  ; 

A  piece  of  harness  ;  and  straps  and  stringjs ; 

And  a  big  strong  box. 

In  which  he  locks 
These  and  a  hundred  other  things. 
His  grinning  brothers,  Reuben  and  Burke 
And  Nathan  and  Jotham  and  Solomon,  lurk 
Around  the  corner  to  see  him  work — 
Sitting  cross-legged,  like  a  Turk, 
Drawing  the  waxed-end  through  with  a  jerk. 
And  boring  the  holes  with  a  comical  quirk 
Of  his  wise  old  head,  and  a  knowing  smirk. 
But  vainly  they  mounted  each  other's  backs, 
And  poked    through  knot-holes  and  pried  through 

cracks ; 
With  wood  from  the  pile  and  straw  from  the  stacks 
He  plugged  the  knot-holes  and  caulked  the  cracks  ; 
And  a  dipper  of  water,  which  one  would  think 
He  had  brought  up  into  the  loft  to  drink 

When  he  chanced  to  be  dry, 

Stood  always  nigh. 

For  Darius  was  sly ! 
And  whenever  at  work  he  happened  to  spy 


476 


CROWN  jewels: 


At  chink  or  crevice  a  blinking  eye, 
He  let  the  dipper  of  water  fly. 
"Take  that !  an'  ef  ever  ye  git  a  peep, 
Guess  ye '11  ketch  a  weasel  asleep  !  " 

And  he  sings  as  he  locks 

His  big  strong  box : — 

"  The  weasel's  head  is  small  an'  trim, 
An'  he  is  little  an'  long  an'  slim, 
An'  quick  of  motion  an'  nimble  of  limb 

An'  ef  you'll  be 

Advised  by  me, 
Keep  wide  awake  when  ye're  ketchin'  him  ! " 

So  day  after  day 
He  stitched  and  tinkered  and  hammered  away, 

Till  at  last  'twas  done — 
The  greatest  invention  under  the  sun  ! 
"An*  now,"  says  Darius,  "hooray  fur  some  fun  !" 

'Twas  the  Fourth  of  July, 

And  the  weather  was  dry. 
And  not  a  cloud  was  on  all  the  sky, 
Save  a  few  light  fleeces,  which  here  and  there, 

Half  mist,  half  air. 
Like  foam  on  the  ocean  went  floating  by — 
Just  as  lovely  a  morning  as  ever  was  seen 
For  a  nice  little  trip  in  a  flying-machine. 
Thought  cunning  Darius :  "  Now  I  shan't  go 
Along  'ith  the  fellers  to  see  the  show. 
I'll  say  I've  got  sich  a  terrible  cough  ! 
An'  then,  when  the  folks  'ave  all  gone  off, 
I'll  hev  full  swing  fur  to  try  the  thing. 
An'  practise  a  little  on  the  wing." 
"Ain't  goin'  to  see  the  celebration ?" 
Says  brother  Nate.     "  No  ;  botheration  ! 
I've  got  sich  a  cold — a  toothache — I — 
My  gracious  ! — feel's  though  I  should  fly  !" 

Said  Jotham,  "  Sho  ! 

Guess  ye  better  go." 

But  Darius  said,  "  No  ! 
Shouldn't  wonder  'f  you  might  see  me,  though, 
'Long  'bout  noon,  ef  I  git  red 
O'  this  jumpin',  thumpin'  pain  'n  my  head." 
For  all  the  while  to  himself  he  said  : — 

"  I  tell  ye  what ! 
I'll  fly  a  few  times  around  the  lot. 
To  see  how  't  seems,  then  soon  's  I've  got 
The  hang  o'  the  thing,  ez  likely's  not, 

I'll  astonish  the  nation, 

An'  all  creation. 
By  flyin'  over  the  celebration  ! 
Over  their  heads  I'll  sail  like  an  eagle  ; 
I'll  balance  myself  on  my  wings  like  a  sea-gull : 
I'll  dance  on  the  chimbleys  ;  I'll  stand  on  the  steeple  ; 
I'll  flop  up  to  winders  an'  scare  the  people  1 
I'll  light  on  the  liberty-pole,  an'  crow  ; 
An'  I'll  say  to  the  gawpin'  fools  below, 
'  What  world  's  this  'ere 

That  I've  come  near?' 
Fur  I'll  make  'em  b'lieve  I'm  a  chap  Pm  the  moon  ; 
An'  I'll  try  a  race  'ith  their  ol'  balloon  ! " 


He  crept  from  his  bed  ; 
And,  seeing  the  others  were  gone,  he  said, 
"  I'm  gittin'  over  the  cold  'n  my  head." 

And  away  he  sped, 
To  op)€n  the  wonderful  bpx  in  the  shed. 

His  brothers  had  walked  but  a  little  way, 

When  Jotham  to  Nathan  chanced  to  say, 

"What  is  the  feller  up  to,  hey !" 

"Don'o' — the  's  suthin'  ur  other  to  pay, 

Ur  he  wouldn't  'a'  stayed  tu  hum  to-day." 

Says  Burke,  "  His  toothache's  all  'n  his  eye  ! 

He  never  'd  miss  a  Fo'th-o'-July, 

Ef  he  hedn't  got  some  machine  to  try." 

Then  Sol,  the  little  one,  spoke  :  "  By  darn  ! 

Le's  hurry  back  an'  hide  'n  the  bam. 

An'  pay  him  fur  tellin'  us  that  yarn  ! " 

"Agreed  1 ' '    Through  the  orchard  they  creep  back. 

Along  by  the  fences,  behind  the  stack, 

And  one  by  one,  through  a  hole  in  the  wall, 

In  under  the  dusty  barn  they  crawl, 

Dressed  in  their  Sunday  garments  all ; 

And  a  very  astonishing  sight  was  that. 

When  each  in  his  cobwebbed  coat  and  hat 

Came  up  through  the  floor  like  an  ancient  rat 

And  there  they  hid  ; 

And  Reuben  slid 
The  fastenings  back,  and  the  door  undid. 

"Keep  dark!"  said  he, 
"While  I  squint  an'  see  what  the'  is  to  see." 

As  knights  of  old  put  on  their  mail — 

From  head  to  foot  an  iron  suit. 
Iron  jacket  and  iron  boot. 
Iron  breeches,  and  on  the  head 
No  hat,  but  an  iron  pot  iiistead. 

And  under  the  chin  the  bail, 
(I  believe  they  called  the  thing  a  helm,) 
Then  sallied  forth  to  overwhelm 
The  dragons  and  pagans  that  plagued  the  realm— 

So  this  modern  knight 

Prepared  for  flight. 
Put  on  his  wings  and  strapped  them  tight ; 
Jointed  and  jaunty,  strong  and  light- 
Buckled  them  fast  to  shoulder  and  hip ; 
Ten  feet  they  measured  from  tip  to  tip ! 
And  a  helm  had  he,  but  that  he  wore, 
Not  on  his  head,  like  those  of  yore, 

But  more  like  the  helm  of  a  ship. 

"  Hush  !  "  Reuben  said, 

"  He's  up  in  the  shed  I 
He's  opened  the  winder — I  see  his  head  ! 
He  stretches  it  out,  an'  pokes  it  about, 
Lookin'  to  see  'f  the  coast  is  clear. 

An'  nobody  near ; — 
Guess  he  don'  o'  who's  hid  in  here  ! 
He's  riggin'  a  spring-board  over  the  sill ! 
Stop  laffin',  Solomon  I  Burke,  keep  still ! 


HUMOROUS   READINGS. 


477 


He's  a  climbin'  out  now— Of  all  the  things  ! 

What's  he  got  on  ?    I  van,  it's  wings  ! 

An'  that  'tether  thing  ?    I  vum,  it's  a  tail ! 

An'  there  he  sits  like  a  hawk  on  a  rail ! 

Steppin'  careful,  he  travels  the  length 

Of  his  spring-board,  and  teeters  to  try  its  strength.    . 

Now  he  stretches  his  wings,  like  a  monstrous  bat ; 

Peeks  over  his  shoulder  ;  this  way  an'  that. 

Fur  to  see  'f  the'  's  any  one  passin'  by ; 

But  the'  's  on'y  a  oaf  an'  goslin  nigh. 

They  turn  up  at  him  a  wonderin'  eye, 

To  see —    The  dragon  !  he's  goin'  to  fly ! 

Away  he  goes  !    Jimminy  1  what  a  jump  ! 
Flop — flop — an'  plump 
To  the  ground  with  a  thump ! 

Flutt'rin'  an'  flound'rin'  all  'n  a  lump  ! " 

As  a  demon  is  hurled  by  an  angel's  spear, 

Heels  over  head,  to  his  proper  sphere — 

Heels  over  head,  and  head  over  heels. 

Dizzily  down  the  abyss  he  wheels— 

So  fell  Darius.     Upon  his  crown. 

In  the  midst  of  the  barn-yard,  he  came  down, 

In  a  wonderful  whirl  of  tangled  strings, 

Broken  braces  and  broken  springs. 

Broken  tail  and  broken  wings, 

Shooting-stars,  and  various  things  ; 

Barn-yard  litter  of  straw  and  chaff. 

And  much  that  wasn't  so  sweet  by  half. 

Away  with  a  bellow  fled  the  calf, 

And  what  was  that?    Did  the  gosling  laugh? 

'Tis  a  merry  roar  from  the  old  barn-door, 

And  he  hears  the  voice  of  Jotham  cry-ing, 

"  Say,  D'rius  !  how  do  you  like  flyin'  ?  " 

Slowly,  ruefully,  where  he  lay, 

Darius  just  turned  and  looked  that  way, 

Au  he  stanched  his  sorrowful  nose  with  his  cuff". 

"  VVal,  I  like  flyin'  well  enough," 

Ha  said ;  "but  the'  ain't  such  a  thunderin'  sight 

O*  fiin  in  't  when  ye  come  to  light." 

I  just  have  room  for  the  moral  here  : 
And  this  is  the  moral — Stick  to  your  sphere. 
Or  if  you  insist,  as  you  have  the  right. 
On  spreading  your  wings  for  a  loftier  flight. 
The  moral  is — Take  care  how  you  light. 

John  Townsend  Trowbridge. 


WIDOW  BEDOTT'S  POETRY. 

ES — he  was  one  o'  the  best  men  that  ever  trod 
shoe-leather,  husband  was,  though  Miss  Jink- 
ins  says  (she  'twas  Polly  Bingham,)  she  says, 
I  never  found  it  out  till  after  he  died,  but  that's 
the  consamdest  lie  that  ever  was  told,  though  it's  jest 
a  piece  with  everj'thing  else  she  says  about  me.  I 
guess  if  everybody  could  see  the  poitry  I  writ  to  his 
memory,  nobody  wouldn't  think  I  dident  set  store  by 
him.    Want  to  hear  it?    Well,  I'll  see  if  I  can  say  it ; 


it  ginerally  affects  me  wonderfully,  seems  to  harrer  up 
my  feelin's  ;  I'll  try.  Dident  know  I  ever  writ  poitry? 
How  you  talk  !  used  to  make  lots  on't ;  haint  so  much 
late  years.  I  remember  once  when  Parson  Potter  had 
a  bee,  I  sent  him  an  amazin'  great  cheeze,  and  writ  a 
piece  o'  poitry,  and  pasted  on  top  on't.     It  says  : 

Teach  him  for  to  proclaim 

Salvation  to  the  folks ; 
No  occasion  give  for  any  blame, 

Nor  wicked  people's  jokes. 

And  so  it  goes.on,  but  I  guess  I  won't  stop  to  say  the 
rest  on't  now,  seein'  there's  seven  and  forty  verses. 

Parson  Potter  and  his  wife  was  wonderfully  pleased 
with  it ;  used  to  sing  it  to  the  tune  o'  Haddem.  But  I 
was  gwine  to  tell  the  one  I  made  in  relation  to  hus- 
band ;  it  begins  as  follers  : — 

He  never  jawed  in  all  his  life. 

He  never  was  onkind — 
And  (tho'  I  say  it  that  was  his  wife) 

Such  men  you  seldom  find. 

(That's  as  true  as  the  Scripturs  ;  I  never  knowed  him 
to  say  a  harsh  word.) 

I  never  changed  my  single  lot — 
I  thou£ht  'twould  be  a  sin — 

(Though  widder  Jinkins  says  it's  because  I  never  had  a 
chance. )  Now  'tain't  for  me  to  say  whether  I  ever  hud 
a  numerous  number  o'  chances  or  not,  but  there's 
them  livin'  that  might  tell  if  they  wos  a  mind  to  ;  why, 
this  poitry  was  writ  on  account  of  being  joked  about 
Major  Coon,  three  years  after  husband  died.  I  guess  the 
ginerality  o'  folks  knows  what  was  the  nature  o'  Major 
Coon's  feelin's  towards  me,  tho'  his  wife  and  Miss 
Jinkins  does  say  I  tried  to  ketch  him.  The  fact  is.  Miss 
Coon  feels  wonderfully  cut  up  'cause  she  knows  the 
Major  took  her  "Jack  at  a  pinch" — seein'  he  couldent 
get  such  as  he  wanted,  he  took  such  as  he  could  get — 
but  I  goes  on  to  say — 

I  never  changed  my  single  lot, 

I  thought  'twould  be  a  sin — 
For  I  thought  so  much  o'  Deacon  Bedott, 

I  never  got  married  agin. 

If  ever  a  hasty  word  he  spoke, 

His  anger  dident  last, 
But  vanished  like  tobacker  smoke 
Afore  the  wintry  blast. 

And  since  it  was  my  lot  to  be 

The  wife  of  such  a  man, 
Tell  the  men  that's  after  me 

To  ketch  me  if  they  can. 

If  I  was  sick  a  single  jot, 
He  called  the  doctor  in — 

That's  a  fact — he  used  to  be  scairt  to  death  if  anything 
ailed  me.  Now  only  jest  think — widder  Jinkins  told 
Sam  Pendergrasses  wife  (she  'twas  Sally  Smith)  that 
she  guessed  the  deacon  dident  set  no  great  store  by 
me,  or  he  wouldent  a  went  off"  to  confrence  meetin' 
when  I  was  down  with  the  fever.    The  truth  is,  they 


478 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


couldent  git  along  without  him  no  way.   Parson  Potter 

seldom  went  to  confrence  meetin,  and  when  A^wa'n't 
there,  who  was  ther'  pray  tell,  that  knowed  enough  to 
take  the  lead  if  husband  dident  do  it  ?  Deacon  Ke- 
nipe  hadent  no  gift,  and  Deacon  Crosby  hadent  no  in- 
clination, and  so  it  all  come  onto  Deacon  Bedott — and 
he  was  always  ready  and  willin'  to  do  his  duty,  you 
know  ;  as  long  as  he  was  able  to  stand  on  his  legs  he 
continued  to  go  to  confrence  meetin' ;  why,  I've 
knowed  that  man  to  go  when  he  couldent  scarcely 
crawl  on  account  o'  the  pain  in  the  spine  of  his  back. 

He  had  a  wonderful  gift,  and  he  wa'n't  a  man  to 
keep  his  talents  hid  up  in  a  napkin — so  you  see  'twas 
from  a  sense  o'  duty  he  went  when  I  was  sick,  what- 
ever Miss  Jinkins  may  say  to  the  contrarv.  But  where 
was  I?    Oh!— 

If  I  was  sick  a  singla  jbt, 

He  called  the  doctor  in — 
I  sot  so  mucli  store  by  Deacon  Bedott 

I  never  got  married  agin. 

A  wonderful  tender  heart  he  had, 

That  felt  for  all  mankind- 
It  made  him  feel  amazin'  bad 

To  see  the  world  so  blind. 

Whiskey  and  rum  he  tasted  not— 

That's  as  true  as  the  Scripturs, — but  if  you'll  believe 
it,  Betsy,  Ann  Kenipe  told  my  Melissy  that  Miss  Jinkins 
said  one  day  to  their  house,  how't  she'd  seen  Deacon 
Bedott  high,  time  and  agin  !  did  you  ever  !  Well,  I'm 
glad  nobody  don't  pretend  to  mind  anything  she  says. 
I've  knowed  Poll  Bingham  from  a  gal,  and  she  never 
knowed  how  to  speak  th§  truth — beside  she  always 
had  a  pertikkeler  spite  against  husband  and  mej^and 
between  us  tew  I'll  tell  you  why  if  you  won't  mention 
it,  for  I  make  it  a  pint  never  to  say  nothin'  to  injure 
nobody.  Well,  she  was  a  ravin'-distracted  after  my 
husband  herself,  but  it's  a  long  story,  I'll  tell  you  about 
it  some  other  time,  and  then  you'll  know  why  widder 
Jinkins  is  etamally  runnin'  me  down.  See — where  had 
I  got  to  ?    Oh,  I  remember  now — 

Whiskey  and  rum  he  tasted  not — 

He  thought  it  was  a  sin — 
I  thought  so  much  o'  Deacon  Bedott 

I  never  got  married  agin. 

But  now  he's  dead  1  the  thought  is  killin', 

My  grief  I  can't  control — 
He  never  left  a  single  shillin' 

His  widder  to  console. 

But  that  wa'n't  his  fault— he  was  so  out  o'  health  for  a 
number  o'  year  afore  he  died,  it  ain't  to  be  wondered 
at  he  dident  lay  up  nothin' — however,  it  dident  give 
him  no  great  oneasiness — he  never  cared  much  for 
airthly  riches,  though  Miss  Pendergrass  says  she  heard 
Miss  Jinkins  say  Deacon  Bedott  was  as  tight  as  the 
skin  on  his  back — begrudged  folks  their  vittals  when 
they  came  to  his  house !  did  you  ever  1  why,  he  was 
the  huU-souldest  man  I  ever  see  in  all  my  born  days. 
If  I'd  such  a  husband  as  Bill  Jinkins  was,  I'd  hold  my 
tongue  about  my  neighbor's  husbands.    He  was  a 


dretful  mean  man,  used  to  git  drunk  every  day  of  his 
life,  and  he  had  an  awful  high  temper— used  to  swear 
like  all  possest  when  he  got  mad — and  I've  heard  my 
husband  say,  (and  he  wa'n,t  a  man  that  ever  said  any- 
thing that  wa'n't  true) — I've  heard  A/w  say  Bill  Jink- 
ins would  cheat  his  own  father  out  of  his  eye  teeth  if 
he  had  a  chance.  Where  was  I  ?  Oh  !  "His  widder 
to  console  " — ther  ain't  but  one  more  verse,  tain't  a 
very  lengthy  poim.  When  Parson  Potter  read  it,  he 
says  to  me,  says  he — "What  did  you  stop  so  soon 
for  ?  " — but  Miss  Jinkins  told  the  Crosby's  she  thought 
I'd  better  a'  stopt  afore  I'd  begun — she's  a  purty  crit-/ 
ter  to  talk  so,  I  must  say.  I'd  like  to  see  some  poitry 
o'  hern — I  guess  it  would  be  astonishin'  stuff;  and 
mor'n  all  that,  she  said  there  wa'n't  a  word  o'  truth  in 
the  hull  on't — said  I  never  cared  tuppence  for  the  dea- 
con. What  an  everlastin'  lie  !  Why,  when  he  died,  I 
took  it  so  hard  I  went  deranged,  and  took  on  so  for  a' 
spell  they  was  afraid  they  should  have  to  send  me  to  a 
Lunattic  Arsenal.  But  that's  a  painful  subject,  I  won't 
dwell  on't.     I  conclude  as  foUers  : — 

I'll  never  change  my  single  lot — 

I  think  't  would  be  a  sin — 
The  inconsolable  widder  o'  Deacon  Bedott 

Don't  intend  to  get  married  agin. 

Excuse  my  cryin' — my  feelin's  always  overcomes  me 
so  when  I  say  that  poitry — O-o-o-o-o  ! 

Frances  Miriam  Whitcher. 


iAT'S  CRITICISM. 

'HERE'S  a  story  that's  old. 
But  good  if  twice  told, 
Of  a  doctor  of  limited  skill, 

Who  cured  beast  and  man 
On  the  "cold-water plan," 
Without  the  small  help  of  a  pill. 

On  his  portal  of  pine 

Hung  an  elegant  sign. 
Depicting  a  beautiful  rill. 

And  a  lake  where  a  sprite, 

With  apparent  delight, 
Was  sporting  in  sweet  dishabille. 

Pat  McCarty  one  day, 

As  he  sauntered  that  way. 
Stood  and  gazed  at  that  portal  of  pine ; 

When  the  doctor  with  pride 

Stepped  up  to  his  side, 
Saying,  "Pat,  how  is  that  for  a  sign?" 

"There's  wan  thing,"  says  Pat, 

"  You've  lift  out  o'  that. 
Which,  be  jabers  !  is  quoite  a  mistake. 

It's  trim  and  it's  nate ; 

But,  to  make  it  complate, 
Y«  shud  have  a  foine  burd  on  the  lake." 


HUMOROUS   READINGS. 


479 


"Ah !  indeed!  pray  then,  teH, 

To  make  it  look  well, 
What  bird  do  you  think  it  may  lack  ?  " 

Says  Pat,  "Of  the  same 

I've  forgotten  the  name, 
But  the  song  that  he  sings  is  '  Quack !  quack  ! ' " 
Charles  F.  Adams. 


ffl' 


SOCRATES  SNOOKS. 

ISTER  Socrates  Snooks,  a  lord  of  creation, 
The  second  time  entered  the  marriage  rela- 
tion: 

^  Xantippe  Caloric  accepted  his  hand, 

And  they  thought  him  the  happiest  man  in  the  land. 
But  scarce  had  the  honeymoon  passed  o'er  his  head, 
When  one  morning  to  Xantippe,  Socrates  said, 
"  I  think,  for  a  man  of  my  standing  in  life. 
This  house  is  too  small,  as  I  now  have  a  wife : 
So,  as  early  as  possible,  carpenter  Carey 
Shall  be  sent  for  to  widen  my  house  and  my  dairy.' 

"Now,  Socrates  dearest,"  Xantippe  replied, 

"I  hate  to  hear  everything  vulgarly  tny'd; 

Now,  whenever  you  speak  of  your  chattels  again, 

Say,  o«r  cow-house,  our  ham-yard,  <7ar  pig-pen." 

"  By  your  leave,  Mrs.  Snooks,  I  will  say  what  I  please 

Of  nty  houses,  my  lands,  my  gardens,  my  trees." 

"Say  our,"  Xantippe  exclaimed  in  a  rage. 

"  I  won't,  Mrs.  Snooks,  though  you  ask  it  an  age  !  " 

Oh,  woman  !  though  only  a  part  of  man's  rib, 

If  the  story  in  Genesis  don't  tell  a  fib. 

Should  your  naughty  companion  e'er  quarrel  with  you, 

You  are  certain  to  prove  the  best  man  of  the  two. 

In  the  following  case  this  was  certainly  true ; 

For  the  lovely  Xantippe  just  pulled  off  her  shoe, 

And  laying  about  her,  all  sides  at  random, 

The  adage  was  verified — "  Nil  desperandum." 

Mister  Socrates  Snooks,  after  trying  in  vain, 
To  ward  off  the  blows  which  descended  like  rain- 
Concluding  that  valor's  best  part  was  discretion- 
Crept  under  the  bed  like  a  terrified  Hessian ; 
But  the  dauntless  Xantippe,  not  one  whit  afraid. 
Converted  the  siege  into  a  blockade. 

At  last,  after  reasoning  the  thing  in  his  pate, 

He  concluded  'twas  useless  to  strive  against  fate : 

And  so,  like  a  tortoise  protruding  his  head, 

Said,  "My  dear,  may  we  come  out  from  under  our 

bed?" 
"Hah  !  hah  !"  she  exclaimed,  "Mr.  Socrates  Snooks, 
I  perceive  you  agree  to  my  terms  by  your  looks : 
Now,  Socrates — hear  me — from  this  happy  hour. 
If  you'll  only  obey  me,  I'll  never  look  sour." 

'Tis  said  the  next  Sabbath,  ere  going  to  church, 
He  chanced  for  a  clean  pair  of  trousers  to  search  : 
Having  found  them,  he  asked,  with  a  few  nervous 

twitches, 
"  My  dear,  may  we  put  on  our  new  Sunday  breeches  ?  " 


THE  RETORT. 

LD  Birch,  who  taught  the  village  school, 
Wedded  a  maid  of  homespun  habit ; 
He  was  as  stubborn  as  a  mule, 
And  she  as  playful  as  a  rabbit.  ^ 

Poor  Kate  had  scarce  become  a  wife 

Before  her  husband  sought  to  make  her 
The  pink  of  country  polished  life, 

And  prim  and  formal  as  a  Quaker. 
One  day  the  tutor  went  abroad, 

And  simple  Katie  sadly  missed  him  ; 
When  he  returned,  behind  her  lord 

She  shyly  stole,  and  fondly  kissed  him ; 
The  husband's  anger  rose,  and  red 

And  white  his  face  alternate  grew : 
"  Less  freedom,  ma'am  !  "     Kate  sighed  and  said, 
"  O,  dear  !  I  didn't  know  'twas  you  ! " 

George  Perkins  Morris. 


MRS.  CAUDLE'S  LECTURE  ON  SHIRT 
BUTTONS. 

HERE,  Mr.  Caudle,  I  hope  you're  in  a  little 
better  temper  than  you  were  this  morning. 
There,  you  needn't  begin  to  whistle :  people 

"f  don't  come  to  bed  to  whistle.  But  it's  just 
like  you ;  I  can't  speak,  that  you  don't  try  to  insult 
me.  Once,  I  used  to  say  you  were  the  best  creature 
living  :  now,  you  get  quite  a  fiend.  Do  let  you  rest  ? 
No,  I  won't  let  you  rest.  It's  the  only  time  I  have  to 
talk  to  you,  and  you  sAal/  hear  me.  I'm  put  upon  all 
day  long :  it's  very  hard  if  I  can't  speak  a  word  at 
night ;  and  it  isn't  often  I  open  my  mouth,  goodness 
knows ! 

Because  oncg  in  your  lifetime  your  shirt  wanted  a 
button,  you  must  almost  swear  the  roof  off  the  house. 
You  didn'^  swear?  Ha,  Mr.  Caudle!  you  don't  know 
what  you  do  when  you're  in  a  passion.  You  were  not 
in  a  passion,  weren't  you  ?  Well,  then  I  don't  know 
what  a  passion  is  ;  and  I  think  I  ought  to  by  this  time. 
I've  lived  long  enough  with  you,  Mr.  Caudle,  to  know 
that. 

It's  a  pity  you  haven't  something  worse  to  complain 
of  than  a  button  off  your  shirt.  If  you'd  some  wives, 
you  would,  I  know.  I'm  sure  I'm  never  without  a 
needle-and-thread  in  my  hand  ;  what  with  you  and  the 
children,  I'm  made  a  perfect  slave  of.  And  what's  my 
thanks  ?  Why,  if  once  in  your  life  a  button's  off  your 
shirr— what  do  you  say  "cA"  at?  I  say  once,  Mr. 
Caudle  ;  or  twice,  or  three  times,  at  most.  I'm  sure, 
Caudle,  no  man's  buttons  in  the  world  are  better 
looked  after  than  yours.  I  only  wish  I'd  kept  the 
shirts  you  had  when  you  were  first  married  !  I  should 
like  to  know  where  were  your  buttons  then  ? 

Yes,  it  is  worth  talking  of!  But  that's  how  you 
always  try  to  put  me  down.  You  fly  into  a  rage,  and 
then,  if  I  only  try  to  speak,  you  won't  hear  me.    That's 


480 


CROWN  JEWELS. 


how  you  men  always  will  have  all  the  talk  to  your- 
selves :  a  poor  woman  isn't  allowed  to  get  a  word  in. 
A  nice  notion  you  have  of  a  wife,  to  suppose  she's 
nothing  to  think  of  but  her  husband's  buttons.  A 
pretty  notion,  indeed,  you  have  of  marriage.  Ha  !  if 
poor  women  only  knew  what  they  had  to  go  through  ! 
What  with  buttons,  and  one  thing  and  another !  They'd 
never  tie  themselves  to  the  best  man  in  the  world,  I'm 
sure.  What  would  they  do,  Mr.  Caudle  ? — Why,  do 
much  better  without  you,  I'm  certain. 

And  it's  my  belief,  after  all,  that  the  button  wasn't 
off  the  shirt ;  it's  my  belief  that  you  pulled  it  off,  that 
you  might  have  something  to  talk  about.  Oh,  you're 
aggravating  enough,  when  you  like,  for  anything  !  All 
I  know  is,  it's  very  odd  the  button  should  be  off  the 
shirt ;  for  I'm  sure  no  woman's  a  greater  slave  to  her 
husband's  buttons  than  I  am.  I  only  say  it's  very 
odd. 

However,  there's  one  comfort ;  it  can't  last  long. 
I'm  worn  to  death  with  your  temper,  and  shan't 
trouble  you  a  great  while.  Ha,  you  may  laugh  !  And 
I  dare  say  you  would  laugh  !  I've  no  doubt  of  it ! 
That's  your  love  ;  that's  your  feeling !  I  know  that 
I'm  sinkmg  every  day,  though  I  say  nothing  about  it. 
And  when  I'm  gone,  we  shall  see  how  your  second 
wife  will  look  after  your  buttons  !  You'll  find  out  the 
difference,  then.  Yes,  Caudle,  you'll  think  of  me, 
then  ;  for  then,  I  hope,  you'll  never  have  a  blessed 
button  to  your  back. 

Douglas  Jerrold. 


i!j' 


AN  AX  TO  GRIND. 

"HEN  I  was  a  little  boy,  I  remember,  one 
cold  winter  morning  I  was  accosted  by  a 
smiling  man  with  an  ax  on  his  shoulder. 
"  My  pretty  boy,"  said  he,  "has  your  fatlier 
a  grindstone?"  "  Yes,  sir,"  said  I.  "  You  are  a  fine 
little  fellow,"  said  he;  *'  will  you  let  me  grind  my  ax 
on  it?"  Pleased  with  the  compliment  of  "fine  little 
fellow,"  "Oh,  yes,  sir,"  I  answered  ;  "  it  is  down  in 
the  shop." 

"And  will  you,  my  man,"  said  he,  patting  me  on 
the  head,  "get  me  a  little  hot  water?"  How  could 
I  refus«  ?  I  ran  and  soon  brought  a  kettleful.  "  I  am 
sure,"  continued  he,  "you  are  one  of  the  finest  lads 
that  ever  I  have  seen ;  will  you  just  turn  a  few  minutes 
for  me?" 

Pleased  with  the  flattery,  I  went  to  work ;  and  I 
toiled  and  tugged  till  I  was  almost  tired  to  death.  The 
school-bell  rang,  and  I  could  not  get  away  ;  my  hands 
were  blistered,  and  the  ax  was  not  half  ground. 

At  length,  however,  it  was  sharpened  ;  and  the  man 


turned  to  me  with,  "Now,  you  little  rascal,  you've 
played  truant ;  be  off  to  school,  or  you'll  rue  it !" 

"  Alas  !"  thought  I,  "it  is  hard  enough  to  turn  a 
grindstone,  but  now  to  be  called  a  little  rascal,  is  too 
much."  It  sank  deep  into  my  mind,  and  often  have 
I  thought  of  it  since.  When  I  see  a  merchant  over 
polite  to  his  customers,  methinks,  "  That  man  has  an 
ax  to  grind." 

When  I  see  a  man,  who  is  'in  private  life  a  tyrant, 
flattering  the  people,  and  making  great  professions  of 
attachment  to  liberty,  methinks,  "Look  out,  good 
people  !  that  fellow  would  set  you  turning  grind- 
stones !" 

Benjamin  Franklin. 


HJ 


KRIS  KRINGLE'S  SURPRISE. 

ITH  heavy  pack  upon  his  back, 
And  smiles  upon  his  face, 
Kris  Kringle  waded  through  the  snow, 
And  went  at  rapid  pace. 
His  sack  that  made  him  sweat  and  tug 

Was  stuffed  with  pretty  toys, 
And  up  and  down  throughout  the  town 
He  sought  the  girls  and  boys. 

Not  long  before,  within  one  door, 

One  little  Johnny  Street, 
By  lucky  chance  got  into  pants. 

And  grew  about  two  feet. 
On  Christmas  eve  he  asked  for  leave 

To  hang  upon  a  peg 
The  woolen  stockings  he  had  worn, 

Each  with  its  lengthy  leg. 

The  cunning  boy,  on  Christmas  joy 

With  all  his  heart  was  -bent, 
And  for  old  Kringle's  packages 

With  all  his  might  he  went. 
In  big  surprise  Kris  Kringle's  eyes 

Stuck  out  and  stared  around, 
For  two  such  stockings  as  those  were 

He  ne'er  before  had  found. 

He  thought  he'd  never  get  them  full. 

They  were  so  strangely  deep ; 
So,  standing  there  upon  a  chair, 

He  took  a  hasty  peep : 
Young  Johnny  Street,  the  little  cheat. 

Had  watched  his  lucky  chance. 
And  to  the  stockings,  at  the  top, 

Had  pinned  his  pair  of  pants. 

Henry  Davenport. 


A  (^A!XE   TW®    (OAK    PLAY    AT, 


«i4*ti. 


n 


ar 


tt. 


CHOICE  SELECTIONS 


OF 


Voc^I  •  ^nd  •  In^Irumenkl  •  i^u^ic 


FOR  THE  — 


HOME  CIRCLE. 


A  HAPPY  BLENDING  OF  THE  OLD  AND  THE  HEW. 


The  most  critical,  comprehensive  and  best-selected  combination  of  old   familar 

Songs  and  Instrumental  Music  with  the  latest  compositions  of  the  most 

distinguished  authors,  and  the  Favorite  Airs  of  English, 

Italian  and  Comic  Opera. 


'ict  ^8  ^nitc  t^B  9ongs  xi\  a  J^ation  anfl  1  Cane  Jitit  32^n  J^b-^zs  Its  \LR^s.''^Sir  Walter  Scott. 


Sung  by  JENNY  LIND. 


Moderaio. 


Yoice. 


Piano. 


HER  BRIGHT  SMILE  HAUNTS  ME  STILL. 


a  tempo. 


For  her  voice    lives  on  the  breeze,    And  her    spirit     comes  at    will;        In   the 

When  I     close     mine  aching  eyes,         Sweet  dreams  my     senses      fill;         And  from 

Ev'ry      dan   -    ger  I  have  known,     That  a    reckless       life  can  fill;         Yet  her 


^■■ 


m 


>i  ij^. 


wt^-M: 


a  tempo. 


(fes 


d: 


-*-—*- 


-^— ^- 


-*— * 


roll. 


--f?itl«=:e 


i^-ztg— ^ 


■^^^-K 


1^=^- 


?2: 


a  tempo. 


'-w^m- 


-^f=^ 


A-- 


mid  - 
sleep 
pre*  - 


^ 


Ki,"   t   I 


night,  on   the   seas,  Her      brightsmilehaunts  me  still, 

when  I      a  -   rise,         Her      bright  smile  haunts  nie still, 
ence  is     not   flown,       Her       bright  smile  haunts  me  still. 


For  her 

When  I 

Ev'-rv 


-^..^^     ^     ^   ,^     ^\, 


^ 


^ 


:e=m: 


m 


-■Hr-^ 


itztic 


_^_^. 


42: 


voice      lives  on    the     breeze,     And  her    spir    -     it  comes  at 
close       mine  ach-ing    eyes,  Sweet    dreams     my  sens-es 

dan     -  ger    I   have  known.    That  a      reck   -     less  life  can 


will ;  In    the 

fill,  And  from 

fill;  Yet  her 


^-^ 


^ 


-Jt — *- 


=4=S- 


ter 


S 


^T=^ 


ifetzi^ 


s 


jj^-l  J  ♦-.q; 


mid  -     night,  on  the      seas.  Her 

sleep         when  I      a    -    rise,  Her 

pres     -     ence  is    not      flown, Her 


^ 


bright  smile  haunts  me  still, 
bright  smile  haunts  me  still, 
bright  i^mile  haunts  me   still. 


e^3 


i^afc 


^EJ^glEp 


S?E5^ 


-«- 


M^HSL 


485 


gi  Marri0r  l^Ii 


i 


Words  by  EDWIN  THOMAS. 


Music  by  STEPHEN  ADAMS. 


IZB — - — IP    jIL. 


=f=F 


ir-|^ 


^: 


J8: 


In     days  of  old,  when  knights  were  bold,  And  bar-ons  held    their  sway,  A. 

So     this  brave  knight,  in   ar-mour  bright,  Wenvgai-ly    to        the   fray,         Ee 


* — I — d 


5=: 


P' 


^ 


:=|: 


^.==m: 


5^ 


:■(=: 


Td.-^ 


— I *- 


:J^ »f- 


:p=S: 


=^=^^J^^ 


^: 


war  -  rior  bold  with  spurs  of  gold.    Sang    mer  -    ri  -  ly    his        lay.  Sang 

fought  the  fight,  but    ere      the  night,  Kia     soul    had  pass'd  a    -    way,  His 


-i^0 


l?i 


:«= 


y ^^-JKt 


^ 


^^t 


qW=: 


i=r- 


:^- 


8^ 


irf^-P-~-i 


s^ 


it 


-i-<ffi 


»4t« 


^     mer  -  ri  -  ly        his     lay. — 
soul  had  pass'd  a  -  way.— 


My  love  is  young  and        fair,  My 

The  plight-cd  ring    he         wore^ Was 


i 


^si^^St 


^ 


^ 


-*»3pe: 


•  *^  *"' 


:tc± 


love  hath  gold  -  en 
crush'd  and  wet  with 


hair, 
gore, 


And  eyes  so  blue,    and  heart  so  true,  That 
Yet    ere    he  died,    he  brave  -  ly  cried,  I've 


486 


A  WAERIOR  BOLD. 


m  •    ^  01 


T=r- 


m-  ^  m 


^F^ 


^ 
p^^ 


S=?5: 


:s:=n 


1^=^ 


^* 


-g"  jj  —  - 


none  with  her  compare.    So  what  care  I,     tho'  death  be  niffh,  I'll  live  for  love  or 
kept  the  tow    I  swore.    So  what  care  I,     tlio'  death  be  nigh,  Fve  fought  for  love  and 


W-    U-Jg- 


^^-f-^ 


-^^-F 


:»«: 


— j h— j- — jd*  m 


voce. 
f 


u  u 


-^^-s- 


i 


^    I 


-S=^ 


^ 


«•• 


-^=-p= 


^^^ 


J     ^  ?^ 


die, )         So  what  care  1,     tho'  death  be  nigh,    I'll  live   for  love      or   die. 


^ 


■^^=t- 


-^-* 


■M«^ 


5t±2:^ 


r^ 


5:^ 


fi»^ 


^- 


m 


^^=^ 


«p5:ta 


22: 


:a:l: 


3^^ 


>   ^  . 


:5=e 


death    be     nigh. 


I've  fought  for     love, 
pin  lento. 


I've  fought  for     love,. 


W 


-h s^ 


w 


^ 


f 


:tm: 


d?p=E 


^ 


(KJ  lib. 


moUo  raUentando  e  dim. 


:g^-J-J_»3 


Z± 


X     X 


:«i 


for  love  I 


die. 


Tve  fought  for     love,    for       love, 


^: 


^^-- 


X     X 


r- 


ff-^^'^coUa,  voce. 


:p2: 


r 


1 
1 


1 


®Iir44  (^iskr^  wmt  ^ailinjg. 


Vords  by  EE7.  C.  KINGSLEY. 


Knsic  by  J.  HT7LLAH. 


"*^ I    I DBBH 1 T^ ■ ^ ^ ^-fT" ^ r^ ^     w" 


•>— #- 


:{£=!v: 


-p    1    r    "P- 


==1^: 


t2=ttc=5: 


atisti^ 


Jtifc 


_1»--JL.-*: 


r^ 


1.  Three  fish-ers  went  sailing  out 


-g- :  -g- 


1 h 


^zS-^-^J-^z^^T-'-.S^ JSttJr 


^ 


4— n 


•^-MlU*- 


a'-g:!g~»"^"|p: 


-ay— ^ — -^ 
->-lp-^ N  h 


^    ^ 


i 


J-=^ 


:s=|t 


:it=«t 


:^ — y- 


:P=t: 


in  -  to      the    west,    Out       in  -  to      the     west,  as      the      sua     went  down;  Eiich 


5^ 


--Sr 


qv5^ 


::^ 


-^       TT 


T 


:^=iji(= 


:g-— -iT^— Sr 


^^=ft 


-^-ir 


:»*: 


rH^- 


«l/ 


^ 


"N    ", 


^ 


5^=5- 


p=z:^i^z:i!: 


:at=iJ: 


:t2=: 


un  poco  raZZ. 


•^      r-    -gzinp      (•      p: 


1)  1^  i^    H>^— =^3 ^ [^3 


■e=:B=ie=^ 


-jM—wt 


?gi=^:za_v-  N.  Hir 


J-V^^ 


thougbt  on    the     wo-man  who  loT'd  him  the  best.  And  the  children  stood  watching  them 


^^=^ 


-V-^ 


i^?E3E^ 


H ^ 


-s^ — a- 


-*— ^ 


/^ 


^ 


-•»•- 


.5? ::.- 


488 


i:^::^ 


:fc=t 


-^^^^ 


THREE      nSHERS      WENT      SAILING, 
^a  tempo. 


:?: 


h     h     h— ^- 


:s==t: 


:^g=^ 


^: 


^     ^     ^ 

out    of     the     town ;  For     men      must  work,  and     wo  -  man  must  weep,  And  there's 


^q       N     -1^1      h 


|=^r^-^5r^-t — r 


1W. 


1^ 


^Pi 


-<>         N     1 


-ti m- 


-=t- 


cres. 


V 


*i=S: 


i 


lit  -  tie        to      earn    and     manj  to     keep ;  Tho'  the     har  -  bor    bar       be 


:=S= 


:5^^ 


:5r=i(: 


-i-n- 


g^"^ 3.=^— ir^— gF^^- 


--iT^- 


'^^^     V  t2»i»-  -»>•• 


cres. 


:ps^=l^ 


:^ 


^f=^ 


K    r    1 


-1      1- 


^      ^    ^^ 


2  Three  wives  sat  up  in  the  light-house  tow'r, 

And  trimm'd  the  lamps  as  the  sun  went  down ; 
They  look'd  at  the  squall  and  they  look'd  at  the  show'r, 

And  the  night-rack  came  rolling  up  ragged  and  brown  I 
But  men  must  work,  and  woman  must  weep, 
Tho'  storms  be  sudden  and  waters  deep,  ^ 
And  the  harbor  bar  be  moaning; 

t  Three  corpses  lay  out  on  the  shining  sands, 

In  the  morning  gleam  as  the  tide  went  down, 
And  the  women  are  weeping  and  wringing  their  hands^ 

For  those  who  will  never  come  back  to  the  town  : 
For  men  must  work,  and  woman  must  weep. 
And  the  sooner  it's  over,  the-sooner  to  sleep 

And  good  bye  to  the  bar  and  its  moaning. 


489 


all^  in  #ttj[  gill^g. 


B-A^LL-A^lD, 


Composed  by  HENE7  CAEE7. 


^ 


-fr^W 


m  >  hj- 


3Br 


1^*;=: 


^^lE^ 


-w-^-^- 


3iz± 


-a^»- 


1.  Of  all  the      girls         that  are  so       smart.         There's  none  like  pret     -     ty 

2.  Of  all  the      days        that's  in  the      week,  I        dear-ly  lova  but 


Bal-ly ;      She  is  the    darl   -    ing  of  my    heart,        And  she  lives  in      our 
one  day,    And  that's  the  day       that  comes  between         A    Sa-tur-day    and 


:;g=^=t=t=if: 


=^ 


:^ 


-JK-- 


r^ 


:m=9- 


-JtiMz 


^ 


^^^ 


m:^ 


m=i^ 


^ 


^ 


^w*- 


al-ley;  There's  ne'er  a  la    -    dy  iathe  land  That's  half  so  sweet  as  Sally:  I  g.    utha 
Monday ;  For  then  I'm  drest    ail  in  my  best.  To  walk  abroad  with  Sally:  j  °  **"  "*^ 


d^^  ing  of  my  heart,         And  she  lives  in  our 


alley. 


490 


BALLY  m  OUK  ALLEY. 


^^^-^^^^E3±:Z^i^^^^^ 


-y-^-— ^n^ 


-t^ 


galley ;  But  when  my  sev'n  long  years  are  out.  Oh !  then  FU  marry  Sally;  And  when  we're 


Wihm  are  tk^J^iipd^  ofmg  gauth. 


Piano. 


OEOnaE  BABEEE. 

Andante  con  espress.  m^^     r^ 

-i- f—H 1 1 H 


I tt 1 1 1 1 i 1 iH fg   I    ^-r i -M>«- 


a  tempo. 


^ 


J^t 


^g^^^ 


4fc^ 


•zMzzzftjrM 


^■=P= 


^^ 


l^gg 


1.  Where  are  the  friend?,  of  my  youth,  Say,  where  are  those  cherish'd  cues  gone  ?         And 

2.  Say,   can     I    ev  -  er     a  -  gain,  Such    ties    can   I      ev-  er       rn   -  new  ?  Or 


^ 


J-arf— •* ^  .'^ 


-.^zM. 


ateiC 


-^_-<l 


2:1: 


why  have  they  dropp'd  with  the  leaf, 
feel  those  warm  pulses    a  -  gain, 


Ah!  why  have  they  left   me    to 
Which    beat  for  the  dear  ones  I 


mourn  ? 
knew? 


Their 
The 


^^^g^^i^^^ 


voices  still  sound  in  mine    ear, 
world  as    a      Winter   is       coldj 


Their     features    I    see     in  my  dreams,      And  th» 
Each  charm  seems  to  vanish    a  -  way.  My 


'^ 


m 


s^-)»: 


■^-^--w=^ 


W~      ■    ^ 


H J?- 


i  1 


492 


WHERE  ARE  THE  FRIENDS  OF  MY  YOUTH  ? 


5- 


-=:^ 


■=S=:^-S^ 


:feiirf!?=S: 


-^-wtizm. 


world       is    a      wil  •  derness    drear,   As    a    wide-spreading  des    -    sert  it 

heart        is  now  blighted  and       old,         It        shares  in    all     na  •  ture's  de- 


X) 


I 


■Ml 


: — ^« — ztizzzis ^ 9c L 


^P 


seems.  Ah!  .     .    .  where  are  the  friends  of  my  youth,      Say,  where  are  thase  cherish'd  ones 

cay.    Ah!    .    ,    .    .  where  are  the  friends  of  my  youth,      Ali !  where  are  those-cherish'd  ones 


^^^ 


r 


::^ 


its:^^^ 


/2_       f)     ad  lib. 


--^^^ 


^3^ 


:j::^z?: 


:*=* 


=i=ieS 


n — k: 


-M—^TMl 


^I^Z 


gone?        And  why  have  they  dropp'd  with  the  leaf,  Ahl  why  have  they  left  me    to 


:zi: 


Ist  verse. 


8d  verse. 


mourn  ? 
a  tempo. 


it.^ 


fe^^^^^^^ 


a  tempo. 


:— K: 


:2^ 


=S 


ritard. 


^JL^L^^m^ 


3^3 


rUard. 


■i>LS> 


2:i: 


•cr 


493 


She  #Id  ^t%im. 


H.  BUSSELL. 

:Q:    Fbr  Symphony  play  last  four  bars  from  ^. 


S3! 


u^ 


--=fi=1^ 


--SlriSt^SL-^-*- 


I 


i^tU^ 


q_  's   1^  ijqzzrin^i^: 


:«z»: 


—  'S   1^  I- 


is: 


i 


1.    Nigh    to     a  grave  that  was  new   -   ly  made,  Leaned  a     sex  -  ton      old,     on  his 

gath  -  er  them  in !     for        man       and     boy.  Year   aft -er  year       of 

3.    Man-  y   are  with  me,  but    still      I'm  alone,      I'm       king      of  the  dead,  and  I 


|i 


earth     worn  spade,         His      work   was  done    and  he  paused  to  wait,  The 

grief      and     joy;           I've   builded  the  houses    that        lie       a  -  round.  In 

make      my    throne.       On  a    monument    slab      of           mar  -  ble  cold,  And  my 

--1 


=i5=E5=:3— 3=d^Ei— 


-'^ — ^ 1 —  - — I —  ^ — S7=r — 

^     TT     W  '-^     W     W^W^ 


m 


^==1=^=^ 


:=-] 1 \—^- 


-J 1— Il=d: 


S^=I=i 


:=i^^ai=ii^zii«t=z  z=^-=r.m=rm^ 


-=4— zr-:=t— =}. — ^-=r 


--=r--=r 


fun  -  'ral  train  through  the  o  -  pen  gate : 
ev  -  ry  nook  of  this  bur  -  ial  ground, 
seep  -  tre  of  rule    is    the     spade      I        hold ; 


;?zzi=l=:ziz=r=iz=:=j- 


A        rel  -  ic    of        by  -   gone 
Mother  and    daugh  -  ter. 
Come  they  from  cottage   or 
4- 


I    I 


fe^^J^S 


m 


^=f5y?z=*=' 


M 


^- 


-jn— j=i. — =4-— .=r 


^izi—^—:Jr 


:J:     5i 


/T>      /Ty    'Ty 


35^=)^: 


■":is~k- 


Hr:^ 


^^B^z 


i 


=3=i=S=l==|ii-=|s= 


^--=-9^ 


:««: 


days     was      he,     And  his  locks    were  white    as  the  foam  y  sea ;         And 

fath  -  er  and  son,  Come   to  my  sol   -    i  -  tude,  one  by  one,         But 

come  they  from  hall,  Man    -  kind   are  my   sub-  jects     -  all,  all,  all!  Let  them 

T- 


THE  OLD  SEXTON. 


E 


de^ 


these    words  came  from  his     lips      so        thin,        •*  I        gather  them    in,  I 

come    they     stran  -  gers,  or     come   they       kin, 
loi    -  ter  in  pleasure     or       toil  -  ful  -  ly  spin. 


m 


m 


■•^  9S-S* 


^*^-^=* 


i 


^*^'^^i 


-*-       -*-  . — I-    — + 


tt«^v 


^=^=1Z=5C 


j=^^       ^~-=^ 


i^zss: 


gaflier  them       in,             gather, 
8va 


gather. 


=^ 


r-«J- 


E^ 


M 


S"-- "1~^^ 


W^ 


[-+        -+        -m-  -^-k)   -Wr        lit        -V         -±^  -^        -wr        -W 


3^EEE?^_:^3 


§^ 


Si-a. 


*=r3£=J^=i!fc3^^^ 


S^=3^3^^ 


3==t=t3 


^1 


-t — r 


P5t==:5 


e=* 


tgg^S^-^=i: 


W^ 


3==? 


ie^*a=-s=SEE^:^*ESE5^sg:^-2^^i 


t7 


••8: 


Hr 


^*="F 


:|= 


8«i. 


-^1=     --«- 


^ 


2.  "I 


g^^i^jg^^lS^^^ 


i 


g;iF3=3E^3B 


^=i=i 


^^f^^»=^?^^^ 


H 


:*:z: 


495 


^tmt%  that  ixn  §rijghtcsi 


PIANO. 


Music  composed  by  W.  V.  WALLACE. 


:fc^ 


^ 


k:^ 


1  Scenes 

2  Words 


that      are         bright 
can   -  not  scat 


est  May     charm.... 

ter  The      thoughts. 


^^ 


H P- 


itii 


i 


D 


±^- 


-pggl-H- 


N=::;^ 


eyes 
mock 


that    smile : 
the      ear. 


Yet  o'er 
Hopes  will 


them,       a  - 
still        de 


E^ 


:m=^. 


496 


SCENES    THAT     ARB     BRIGHTEST. 


dim. 


=f=;i5^ 


^^E^S^^Zi 


Bad they  seem, 

heart is      lost. 


$ 


Fine. 


Efc 


-JTii 


m 


1= 


:t^- 


^ 


^    -if 


M   r    g|^=^~ZS 


-_ .^ 

497 


32 


(Jl4^  m  n  Itri 


Urs.  11 S.  B.  SANA. 


JfC      JfOnfffyilO  ffpTftf- 


E^ 


-jKuzm^m. 


^s^ 


1.  Flee        as      a  bird       to      your  moun      -       tain, 

2.  He        will    protect      thee   for  -  ev      -      -      er, 


22: 


5=3 


^ 


:z3s: 


-^. 


'^^^^ 


1^-. 


Thou  who   art  wea   -    ry        of    sin;.. 
Wipe      ev    -      'ry        fall  -  ing  tear;. 


Go       to  the  clear    flow  -  ing 
He      will  forsake     thee,  O 


Where    you  may  wash    and     be  clean ; 
Shel  -  tered    so  ten   -    der  -  ly  there ; 


TLEE  AS  A  BIRD. 


^m 


Fly,    for    th'aven  -  ger      is    near  thee, 

Haste,  then,  the  hours  are  fly  -         ing. 


Call      and    the   Sa  -  viour  will 
Spend     not    the  moments     in 


-*-       -^-       -4^       -^-  -m-   -*-      -m-   -»-        -w-       •^-         -p(-  ^^ 


-x=^ 


I  3^  I  '^ 


^ 


i*:^ 


thee, 
ing,    The 


He         on     his  bos   -   om      will    bear 
Cease     from  your  sor  -  row     and      cry 


:^=l: 


-m-       -40-       -*-       -*-        -*-       -^-         -m-"'^  -♦•       -•    -^- 


22: 


i 


«n  poco  nfcn«<o. 


^^ 


=^ 


1*=^: 


^=3 

Thou    who    art  wea    -    ry      of     sin,  O 

Sa    -   viour  will  wipe      ev  -  'ry     tear,  The 


thou     who   art  wea    -    ry      of 
Sa    -   viour  will  wipe      ev  '-  'ry 


r-^— =1- 


=4 


3=^ 


-3-^ ~=i —  ijjg    ! 


W 


-c^ 


^ 


z?-: 


=* 


^       ^ 


--^=^ 


_* 


sm. 
tear. 


:^-n 


«•• 


^1^^^^^^^^ 


-22r 


-si- 


-«»- 


12^ 


499 


f  aMI^  guar  ^wn  ^mnt 


Composed  and  Arranged  for  the  F^iano-Forte* 


VOICE. 


PiANO., 


£7  K  EOBSON. 


%-^h— ^ 


-=?-p- 


^ 


r=mi 


q^=ft 


1.  I've  trarcH'd  a-bout  a 

2.  I     have       no  wife        to 

3.  It'»    all      ve-ry  well  to  de- 

4.  it      II    bar  -  ri-cane  rise  in 


Vr-r-.r  ^^-^ 


^f=^ 


^JjP*t=t2: 


^m-^-m- 


i 


l^r 


=«ti^ 


^i=fc^ 


:s=sr 


Sl=St 


-N— V^ 


:p=P= 


i^itizat 


_^_js-4^3g 


-i^-^ 


^tz=t2: 


bit  in    my  time,  And  of  troubles   I've  seen        a      few But  found  it    bet-ter    in 

bother    my   life.  No  lov  -  er     to     prove      nn  -  true, But  the  whole  day  long  with  a 

pend  on  a     friend,    That  is,     if  you've  proved  him  true, But  you'll  find  it    bet-ter  by 

the  mid-day  skies      And  the  sun   is      lost  to     view, Move  stead-i  -  ly  by,  with 


I 


-1^— N- 


M  ^  r*  iS  rs  s-K 


ii=^ 


^=S=M 


^=^'^=^ig=*=! 


ev'  -  ry  clime  To  pad-die  my  own 
laugh  and  a  song,  I  pad  die  my  own 
far  in  the  end.  To  pad-die  your  own 
a      stead-fast  eye.     And  pad-die  your  own 


c»  -  noe. 
ca  -  noe. 
c»  -  noe., 
ca  -  noe. 


My  wants      are    small,    I 
I     rise  with  the  lark,  and  froa 
To  "  borrow  "  is  dearer    by 
The  dai  -  sies    that  grow  in 


^ 


50U 


PADDLE     YOUR     OWN     CANOE. 


(^^    m  \W- 


"W^W. 


^F^ 


:tE=:|si:ts=fsi=s=4*q 


^^■ 


iSm^ 


it^-jgL  ^   ^  ^  ^ 


y-vi?- 


muMziatzmt 


;i^ 


care  not  at  all  If  my  debts  are  paid  when  due,, 
daylight  till  dark  I  do  what  I  have  to  do,... 
far  than  to  "buy,"  A  max-iin  tho' old,  still  true,, 
the  bright  green  fields,  Are  blooming  so  sweet   for    you,. 


I     drive  a-way  strife  in  the 
I'm  careless  of  wealth,  if  I're 
You  ner-er  will  sigh,  if    you 
So     uev-er  sit  down  with  a 


^^- 


:*=:^-f-^-t*=g- 


-C0    jl- 


^l?=Ci 


r-p- 


o  -  cean  of  life.  While  I  pad-die  my     own  ca  -  noe Then  love     your  neigh-bor 

on  -  ly    the     health     To  pad-die  my     own  ca  -  noe 

on  -  ly    will   try           To  pad-die  your  own  ca  -  noe CH0ItJJS» 

tear  or     a       frown.     But  paddle  your  own  ca  -'noe 


1: 


rit. 


^■=J- 


:(?==(?: 


I 


your-self,     As      the    world  you     go      trar  -  el  -  ling     through. 


int 


And 


r* 


-« « m « m *- 


*i_*'~»: 


.i»i*i»" 


m 


:=i ^ 


i 


■"^-1^ 


i^-;?-k- 


-J^n:^. 


^— ^ 


;i^^-isr-1^ 


:*==s? 


«*- 


ner  -  er     sit  down  with  a  tear  or      a     frown,    But    pad-die  your  own       ca  -  noe, 

5^ 


^=4=^: 


H--n 


i--i---=^«Si*=-irS— -i^^' 


^rr 


-M- 


liW: 


liT 


^^ 


501^ 


^mui  ^iitjg  ih  MA  ^01151 


"B.A.IjIL,-A.3D. 


Words  and  Music  by  CLAHIBEL. 

Slotoly. 


mjO 


rz_ 


^: 


:i 


-i — 1-- 


^^_ ; — g% — « — tz: 


e=^; 


•-1 1 1 h- 


-EzizB-. 


r 


1.  I       can  -  not     sing      the     old 


songs  I       Bung     long  years      a   -    go. 


-^ 1 

For 


V 


3Mzizz=|' 


^— g— »=^ ^— 5.— gt-h*:- J*'— g^-^  M    -gr-grrgF^ 


5f^E 


:=1: 


2i; 


I 


!•=!•; 


H ! H 


-p 


r 


.g— ^l"! pi-=^ 


-.^=M. 


:^^p: 


-j^z=B—M-z-^-- 


me,     And      fool  -  ish     te«n   irould  flo'cr ; 


heart  and     voice   would   fail 


For 


1^4-4^ 


-. !- 


22: 


602 


'I     CANNOT     SING     THE     OLD     S0NQ8/ 


bj  •  gOQQ  hoar<  come    o'er        mj  hetirt  With    each    fa  -  mil  -  iar        strain 


,m^^^^^ 


.m—, 


:j^: 


:JS=^ 


=?t=p: 


::^—M. 


^ 


n1: 


ean  -  not     sing    th« 


old 


Eongs,  Or       dream  those  dreams  a     -     gain, 


-*— 15.— »•- 


m- 


-m^—^—mt 


-q— #{  »fal 


1 


_, p 


, 1- 


=^: 


■is*- 


3  I  eannot  sing  the  old  songi, 
Their  charm  is  snd  and  deep 
Their  melodies  woald  waken 

Old  sorrows  from  their  sleep 
And  though  Ml  unforgotten  still. 
And  sadly  street  they  be, 
|:  I  cannot  sing  the  old  songs, 
They  are  too  dear  to  ma. :} 


3  I  cannot  sing  the  old  songa. 
For  visions  come  again, 
Of  golden  dreams  departed, 
And  years  of  weary  pain  ; 
Perhaps  when  earthly  fetterf 
Have  set  my  spirit  free, 
|:  My  voio*  may  know  the  old  »ong$ 
For  all  eUsraity.  :]       ^q^ 


Andantino. 


FEANZ  ABT. 


^ 


^^ 


^ 


-rf  .rf¥.-» 


=l=l:==t: 


^ 


:1==1=|: 


:^.-^ — ^: 


zslzizi: 


dim. 

1.  Bliss  -  ful  dreams  come  steal  -  ing  o'er  me,  Bring  •  ing     hap    •    py  scenes  gone  by ; 

2.  Though  each  day     fresh  care      be  bringing,  That  brief    vis    -    ion  soothes  my  heart ; 


^ 


^-—# 


tK 


dim. 


:^: 


is^ 


-c^ 


J.      _  rfiffi. 


Where  each  day     new  pleas  -  ures  bringing,      Left     at    heart     no    cause  to     sigh 
Bids  me    hope   the    day         not  dis  •  tant,    When  loved  forms  no     more  shall  part. 


BLISSFUL  DEEAMS  COME  STEALING  O'ER  ME. 


Home      of  peace  I      I  see     thy    por-tals,    Hear  the     voic    •  ea    dear   to        me, — 

Come,  sweet  sleep,   my        eye  -  lids   seal  -  ing,  Come,  bright  dream,  my  soul  to        cheer ; 


^$=^-W 


3p=z: 


P 


m 


j^zt 


:*^ 


ic:^: 


Grasp  the  hands     of   pure       af  -  fee  •  tion,      And  the  glance      of    rapture       see : 
Waft  me   back       ti)  scenes       of  pleasure.      Bring  the  smile      and  chase  the    tear ; 


==t 


:t 


^- 


gn 


:ff=p: 


*^-^- 


M~-E& 


'-^=U 


'fnC^S^^t^ 


<4 — I — 


^^^ 


Pfr^^ 


IS 


Grasp  the  hands      of    pure  af  -  fee  •  tion.        And  tKe  glance   of  rapt    -    nre      see. 

Waft   me  back       to   scenes  of  pleas  •  ure,      Bring  the  smile  and       chase        the      tear. 


-r- 


ii 


^-l-L-U 


^^^^^^ 


— 1— c: -t—m m-i f 


stz: 


^  ZiJ^  'Si^-g>fc 


^h  SinYph  and  th^  Mhak 


A  "SHELL"  or  OCEAN. 


Alletfro  nan  troppo. 


— 3: — L^ — L. 


i|E^E?E£^ 


^— .-J- 


:^ 


■m — 9 —  m — « —\-t — a— I"— =— F-*i- 


f 


In  the  North  Sea  liv'd  a  whale,     In  the  North  Sea  liv'd  a  whale!     In    the  North  Sea 
All  went  well  un- til  one  day,       All  went  well  un- til    one  day,       All  went  well  un- 
just you  make  tracks  cried  the  whale,  Just  you  make  tracks  cried  the  whale,  Just  you  make 

tracks 


--$=IX 


:*=!*: 


Si 


-zzrxziTM 

— ^» — m 


P 


._Uug_ 


] ^ — ^ — 0 — «r-h* — ? — •-w-F 


3^--f 


ip— C: 


-^ h 


:p=i:: 


gElS^Jj 


^==!s=q: 


::1t^ 


/ 


SEfcSE^ES 


tz±t? 


-«— ha hi- 


ilJztzzztz: 


m- 


liv'd  a  whale!     Big  in  bone  and  large  in    tail,       Big    in  bone  and  large  in    tail, 

til    one  day.     Came  a  strange  fish  in    the  bay.     Came  a  strange  fish  in    the    bay, 

cried  the  whale.  Then  lie  la?h'd  out  with  his    tail.     Then  he  lash' d  out  with  his  tail. 


THE  TORPEDO  AND  THE  WHALE, 


^^:=^^^ 


'^m^^m^ 


This  whale  used 
This     fish  was 
The     fish   be 


i^it 


un  -   du  -  ly.         To 
in      deed  oh,  A 

ing     load  -  ed,      Then 


^ 


-K-, 


r^— 1=: 


7^- 


^^ 


'^f^ 


J^-•• 


m 


swagger,       and      bul  -  ly       And  oh !  and    oh ! 

Woolwich     Tor-    pe  -  de!      But   oh!  but    oh! 

and  there     ex  -  plod-  ed.     And  oh !  and  oh ! 


The  la  -  dies  lov'd  him 
The  big  wahle  did  not 
That  whale  was  seen  no 


-^I. 


^ — p 3^,:,, m. 


r^^i 


er3i==:i^ 


m 


±z^ 


^IF^- 


-■-r- 


:p=sr 


^^ 


i^ 


^Z-^1S^ 


P 


mf 


Kf=^ 


-=1— •'— r 


^-^ 


*-^- 


-1- 


:^?z=p=z:i: 


^ 


so !    This  whale  used 
know.  This  fish    was 
mo'l    The   fish     be 


un  -  du  -  ly, 
in-  deed  oil ! 
ing  load  -ed. 


To      swagger       and     bul  -  ly,       And 

A    Woolwich     Tor-   pe-do!       But 

Then  and  there     ex  -   plod-ed.       And 


^^^^^m 


zt=::=ff=: 


I — I — 


The      la  -    dies    lov'd 
The     big  whale     did 
That  whale  was    seen 


him 
not 
no 


so! 
know, 
mo'! 


f^Ht  far  the  Wm^  fat 


i- 


Words  by  M.  THORNTON. 


Music  by  W.  T.  WHIGHTON. 


E=.B=^E 


j^^ 


1.  Rest        for    the  wea  -  ry, 

2.  For  this     we        nerve      our 


L^ 


:rj= 


■^         a^- 


-^-*-" 


;^z3-zi^:^3:3!l5*l 


■•^^ 


*=^=ii= 


E 


!     y- 


i 


^: 


P==P= 


:z2 


--^=1^: 


rest,    . 
strength, 


When    all       life's      toils  are       o'er; 

For     this       we  on      -     ward    move; 


rfc 


p^^^^S^^^'^g'^^^ 


i^f      x=f=^=^-==[f==^'¥==g===^ 


PT 


^=z^=i=iz.^ 


^ 


raW. 


ri: 


:^=S 


5?±*=irzit 


:?srq-: 


Rest       for    the  wea  -    ry,  rest,    . 

Shani'^   and  reproach   •   es  bear,   . 


Up  -  on  a    tran  -  qiiil 

And  take      them  all     for 


1^ 


-* : 


508 


REST  FOR  THE  WEARY,  REST. 


a  tempo. 


shore ; 
love: 


:P 


:^izz==.-s==^ 


^ 


Where      sighs,  and  tears,    and         pains,    . 

Count      ev'  -  ry  hour  that  flies, 


E5E3EEE 


-^s — -?=^-*- 


-*— 


litziz.^: 


rl?: 


:i^ 


^ 


i^--^ 


Once       all     in  mer  •   cy  sent. 

Watch      ev'  -  ry  sun       go  down, 


Will       ne'er  dis-turb         a 

Still       near      -     er     to         the 


rl^^J^^^^-il^rfC^^^^^Ff^^ 


y  jjj*;.j:^^^U'  ^'jj^jy^^^ji^^^^^ 


1*=.^ 


rail. 


rpzr 


:it= 


::Sz:z=j 


:|iC: 


izi: 


gain,    . 
skies,    . 


The        blest 
The        robe. 


in  •  hab 
the  palm. 


i    •    tant. 
the     crown. 


;r=-n 


^^ 


f35& 


^y^^jJ^T^^^ggg.L_g^_^^ 


m 


3 


»^ s^ 


— « — F *- 


Slower. 


'4 X 


«: 


1 


l=3E^3Sz-E3 


:3^i3iz*zzzM: 


a<— -#n^- 


£^:e« 


-(S^ 


Rest   for  the  wea  -  ry,  rest. 

Rest   for  the  wea  •  ry,  rest. 


Rest    for  the  wea  •  ry,         rest, 
Rest    for  the  wea  •  ry,         rest. 


^^^^?*^ 


i 


::5=--^--:=it--^: 


609 


Of  ^ir! 


SPANISH    BALLAD 


Words  and  Music  Arranged  iDy 


A.  M.  WAESHBLD. 


▼OICB. 


PIANO. 


«•• 


■S     N 


:5i=^ 


q?=z=*: 


3^1 


«: 


1.  Oh     tell  me        one  thing, 

2.  My    fa  -  ther      was  a 


tell     me         tru     -     ly,         Tell  me 
Span-ish        mer  -  chant,      And  be 


^m^^w^m^^ 


m^ 


iri; 


>. — k 


-if=^=^' 


you  scorn  me      so, 
he    went  to       sea, 


1 


Tell  me     why,  when  ask'd    a 

He  told  me  to  be       sure    and 


q==X::i^ 


ini 


KO  SIR  I 


piu  moaao. 


=*=^=i:^ 


K=f1:pS=; 


^E^^ 


question.  You  will  always 

answer  No !     To  all  you 


answer     no? 
said  to      me — 


No  Sir! 
No  Sirl 


:q^ 


1 1 1 1 i i- 


M^^^^ 


:=lr= 


^'- 


■j^z 


m 


---^ 


=^^ 


:dz^ 


-^-^-X »- 


no  sir! 


no  sir! 


no !  FtNB. 


^=2 


-^S=== 


-y-^- 


=*^-*— 


3.  If  when  walking  in  the  garden, 

Plucking  flow'rs  all  wet  with  dew, 
Tell  me  will  you  be  offended, 
If  I  walk  and  talk  with  you? 
No  sir!  etc 


4.  If  when  walking  In  the  garden, 
I  should  ask  you  to  be  mine. 
And  should  tell  you  that  I  love  you, 
Would  you  then  my  heart  decline  9 
No  Sir  I  etc. 

511 


S^n  ^0tt1l  liemphr  ^t. 


AS  SUNG  IN  THE  OPERA  OF  "THE  BOHEMIAN  GIRL/ 


Words  b7  ALPEEL  BUNN,  Esq. 


Music  b7  M.  W  EALPE. 


PIANO. 


Andante  Cantahile. 


^ 


^zzat 


:m=W=TWP^- 


;^ 


=!^^ 


-^^ — ^ 


^E  !^  r^'-  r^-   1^'   rs 

1 — ^_— -2!-!^ — 5_=}-5! — L^r^   r »— =^-p — '  r  1   r 

5  l^ 


'^Crw.    ^^=«-     5 


^ — =»—*=- 


I" m- 


dt 


^=^3= 


-I U 


1.  When        oth    -    cr  lips       and 

2.  When        cold  -  neea         or  de 

a  tempo. 


"rS     —1   >^         •I 


-n-^ 


^ 


1-^ — h 


.  m. 


m 


ppS, 


£ 


-fs-F~^ 


S^5^ 


451^ 


PE=» 


E3 


^ — w 


^ 


1=1=: 


oth  -  er    he»rt«  Their   tales   of         Iotb  riiall      tell, 

celt         shall  slight       Tho      beaii-ty  now  they        prire, 


In  Inn  -  guage  whose    ex 

And        deem    it       but       a 


:^=?- 


■ — 1^ — I- 


-=^j=- 


1       [■■■|---I=T: 


^MT^. 


■q-  r  I     =)-=H 


It*: 


^=n^n 


^ 


^   ^> 


■"^  1  r — ^=^-p- 


s 


-^-p- 


P*"!  ^         f^"^ 


512 


THEN      YOU'LL      REMEMBER      ME. 


^ 


m 


3tz:st 


S^i 


■.i=t 


f?=»3 


3fc3t 


cess      im    -      parts        The    pow'r        they   feel         bo      well, 
fad  •  ed  light      Which  beams      with -in  your  eyes, 


There       may    per  -    haps  in 
When,        hoi  -  low    hearts  shall 


^^  f  f  ?^   T¥-r  ^ 


U—r^-^tm 

-f r 

-r — j — ^*?-if^- 

-d r- 

such           a 
wear          a 

H 1 

scene           Snme 
mask,          Twill 

-1 ^ — ^zz^'- 

re      -       col      -      lec      -              tion 
break        your          own                   to 

k.           k.          N           K 

-^~" — J- 

be                    Of 
see.                  In 

[iv  •'J"'  1 

•^  ^  -^     J- 

^ — M — ^  1    r  1 — ?- 

#^ 3^ « — • 

-1^1      N  - 

7      %■    t- 

— j.           ^     "SM     ^     -^        *■}!&: /^ 

U\'  Vt        K         m 

1                  N 

».                                                      S 

p 

Wi  1?        f^  -^     ^     - 

J   -1       r    -1  __ 

^     1          i*         1               1         1         W         "i 

iJ     ^        •I  - 

<lAj         J      ~     u      ~         -■        '         J 

•      '  •^  ~ 

— 

fl                                                    ^ 

t=Sz 


^Zf=at. 


days         that        have         as  hap     -      py         been,         And    you'll       re 

such         a  mo    -     nient  I  but        ask  That  you'll       re 


menj 
mem 


ber 
ber 


-=) — V- 


"f^    r 


1  r    a^    1   r 


-=?— p- 


r  1  r- 


-»s^- 


fc^ 


i?z=t^ 


=|it=»t 


^^ 


4- «- 


me,., 
me,. 


and      you'll    re    -   mem  -  ber,    you'll    re    -    mem  -  ber      me. 
that    you'll    re   -    mem  -  ber,    you'll  °  re    -    mem  -  ber      me. 


Pn  1       r 


i>i  r 


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3t3i|: 


'i«y 


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SI 


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33 


-)P- 

k    513 


PtiUinjg  gard  gijgainHt  th  ^ti|cam. 


Composed  and  Arranged  for  the  I*ianO'Forte, 


By  M.  HOBSOIT. 


flAWO. 


^ 


qspt 


zs=zii 


i^^^ 


±^=tz=!f=J: 


HJ-»-* 


0T 


:i!=t2: 


:^-=t2: 


1.  In  the  world  I've  gained  my  knowledge,  And  for  it  have  had  to      pay,     Though  I      nev  er 

2.  Many  a  bright,  good-hearted  fellow.     Many     a      no-blo  -  minded  man.       Finds  him-self    in 


f 


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^=5 


3.= 


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:^tq: 


d H^ 9 — 


:&£ 


l^ts: 


3i=:i 


:«t=g; 


went  to      col-lege.    Yet  I've  heard  that  poets    »ay,       Life  is     like      a      mighty     riv  -  er 
wa  -  ter     shallow,    Thena8-$i»t     him    if    you  can;     Some  suc-ceed     at     ev' -  ry     turning. 


b=:± 


:s=n- 


i^P^l^i^^^ 


V 


^3^tf-^^ 


^W^ 


:3=*: 


►614 


•Q--^- 


-^ 


PULLING     HARD    AGAINST     THE     STREAM. 


:?r=1!5: 


:^t=5v 


-r-w 


Ht^ 


5!=ti*: 


5*: 


-^ 


js^iitz: 


-^i±M. 


^=^ 


Roll-ing     on  from      day  to    day,      Men  are  ves-sels  launch'd  upon  it,  Sometimes  wreck'd  and 
Fortune     fa  -  vora      ev'-ry  scheme,  0th  -  era  too,    tho'   more  de-serv-ing,     Have  to  pull    a- 


^^ 


^ 


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3t 


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O  H  O  IR  XJ  S. 


B: 


:R=J5: 


-j-'^ft. 


^:p — r-T 


U'     g  J: 


K — ^ 


Jk=p: 


HW-^-* 


cast    a  -  way.  So  then 
gainst  the  stream.  So  then 


ad  lib 


Do  your  best    for    one    an    -    oth  -  er,   Mak-ing  life    a 


-r-p- 


-^^=^ 


^\=mr- 


JtZi^ 


pleasant  dream,     Help  a    worn  and  wea-ry       brother      Pull-ing  hard    a-gainst  the  stream. 


8  If  the  wind  is  in  your  favor, 

And  you've  weather'd  ev'ry  squall. 
Think  o!  those  who  luckless  labor, 

Never  get  fair  winds  at  all. 
Working  hard,  contented,  willing, 

Struggling  through  life's  ocean  wide, 
Not  a  friend  and  not  a  shilling. 

Palling  hard  against  the  tide. —  Chorut. 


4  Don't  give  way  to  foolish  sorrow, 
Let  this  keep  you  in  good  cheer. 
Brighter  days  may  come  to-morrow 

If  you  try  and  persevere. 
D.trkest  nights  will  have  a  morning, 

Though  the  sky  be  overcast, 
Longest  lanes  must  have  a  turning, 
And  the  tide  will  turn  a(  last. — Chorui. 
616 


n  ih  #Iflamm0. 


-*«-^^»-»»- 


Words  ^7  META  OERED.         Music  by  AITITIE  POUTESCUE  HAEEBON. 

Andante. 


m^^^^^^^^t*fi?l?0 


I 


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zs 


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3 


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a!?l3E 


1.  In  the  gloam  -  ing         oh,  my  dar  -  ling! 

2.  In  the  gloam  -  ing         oh,  my  dar  -  ling ! 


^ 


f- 


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r     ^ 


wi 


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5 


when     the       lights     are       dim 
think     not         bit   •    ter    -     ly 


and    low — 
of     me ! 


And  the  qui    •    et 

The'  I  passed       a « 


ife^ 


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shad    -     ows  fall  -  ing,        soft   -    ly        come      and        soft       -        ly    go, — 
way  in      si  -  lence,       left      you       lone    -    ly,         set  you  free. 


g%i''L^df'6>Ly'^^ 


^^ 


^ 


516 


IN  THE  GLOAMINa 


Agitato. 


4>dr — iB-J    J    IJ     ^S^—J 


i 


When  the  winds  are         sob    -     bing     faint   -  ly        with  a  gen  •    tie 

For  my  heart    was    crushed      with      long  -  ing,      what  had  been  coukl 


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txm  amvma. 


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un  •  known      woe,- 
nev    -    er  be. 


Will 
It 


you  think       of  me 

was  best       to         leave 


and  love      me, 
you  thus,    dear. 


^ 


J-.     ilJ 


■m 0- 


^ 


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\st        %      2rf, 


roO. 


22 


As 
Best 


you 
for 


did 
you 


once 
and 


long 
best 


a  -   go? 
for 


me, — 


It 


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best    to   leave  you  thus. 


'i 


Best    for     you     and      best         for      me. 


W 


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tj^ 


«i^ 


0^ 


2s: 


-•si- 


517 


"zsr 


tJ^r  the  €mkn  Mall. 


Words  by  HAERY  EUNTEE. 


'l — ^^-^ fH"L-J — *- 


Music  by  (}.  D.  FOX 


:i»zrptaiz^:pz:»ip»:izai:pz*; 


^i^ii 


1 1 1 1 — H 

1 e^ 1 fc^-«-l 


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i 


^^:=eSes=B^S 


::t 


==~-ir=l^ 


■te^tf* 


.*-:i?:.   :r: 


1.  Oh,  my     love       stood    un  -  der  the 

2.  But    her      fa    -    tlier  stamped,  and  her 


SZIZt 


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3|: 


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3:     "2"^ 


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==ri^TF 


:cE?.^5E3E^?E£ES^S=g 


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hV-j5 


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iiitia: 


:Jziz-iit:: 


t«i 


wal  -  nuttree,  O  -  ver  the  gar  -  den  wall,        She  whisper'd  and  said  she'd  be  true  to  me, 

fa  -  ther  raved,     O  -  ver  the  gar  -  den  wall.         And  like  an  old  mad  -  man    he  behaved, 


::j==!!i:a=3q: 


-«-  -«-  -•h  -«-  -m-         -m-  -m-  -•-  -a#-  -ah-a^-    -at- 


i^zii^-ia): 


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is:  :sf3t  :J:  V 


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P=t 


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^53^EEs: 


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1-1 — JW- 


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•Wt-<0-W0-    -Wt 


— V  — I 1-  — f-      -^-  -—J 


^ 


-e— «^ 


O  ver  the  garden     wall,      She'd  beautiful  eyes,  and  beautiful  hair,  She  was  not  very  tall  so  she 
O-ver  the  garden     wall,      She  made  a  bouquet  of    ro  -  ses  red.  But  im-me-di-ate-Iy       I 


^^^^^^^^^^^mi 


zSszi^Es—fn' 


J— .^ai«^.J^|.-:g: 


1!a=^ 


— 1— L^— »-• 


rt-*|---L 


zj    zdzitiij: 


-•! •-• — « '^•1 «-« •i-t 

-«-     -m--m-  -m-       -m-     -m-m-     -m- 

--I &:dz:-A-[jg-l-r  r-=g=F 

lit    ;^;iL^     I      >|      > 


OVER  THE  GARDEN  WALL. 


'<-^- 


i 


stood  on  a  chair,  And  ma-ny  a  time  have  I  kissed  her  there       O-ver  the  gar  -  den  wall 
popped  up  my  head,  He  gave  me  a  bucket  of  wa  ter  in  stead,       O-ver  the  gar  -  den  wall. 


fclj--JizgzidEs===iJ=i|z=^S=:»|zi:3j±*--«=«z:«!=Eii=i!:S--J 
7j     -m-     -S--S-        -5!-       -S--S-       -ST-m-    -«--«-  -•-  -m-     -•--»(-  -*-  -•»-  -•-•»- 


^ -\  1         C_4 1 1 i-L_ ^ 1 a:     ^_^_»_L  -j— -j j u 


Chorus. 


S    i"*  J 


3S' 


=1^ 


:S=P: 


:t2rj{«— >rb 


::q*^_z=:^: 


O  -  ver  the  gar  -  den   wall, 


J=: 


The      sweet  -  est  girl     of     all. 


There 


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:ti=^U: 


/ 


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^r 


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JfLzztz: 


-r- 


^4: 


nev-er    were  yet      such  eyes    of     jet.     And  you    may  bet,     I'll  nev-er  for -get.   The 


— ! J— ^ -T?-Fi 6«— F 


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^3=^ 


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ipcm: 


:iz=t==it 


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>-rr 


O  -  ver    the    gar  -  den     wall. 


—s 


m 


night    our    lips 

-m-     -m-  -m- 

-tl_"u--& 


in  kiss  -  es    met, 

— -g:   ^  • 


^• 


t= 


3.  One  day  I  jumped  down  on  the  other  side. 

Over  the  garden  wall, 
And  she  bravely  promised  to  be  my  bride. 

Over  the  garden  wall. 
But  she  scream'd  in  a  fright,"here's  father,  quick, 

I  have  an  impression  he's  bringing  a  brick," 
But  I  brought  the  impression  of  half  a  brick. 

Over  the  garen  wall. 


4.  But  where  there's  a  will,  there's  always  a  way. 

Over  the  garden  wall. 
There's  always  a  night  as  well  as  day. 

Over  the  garden  wall. 
We  had'nt  much  money,  but  weddings  are  cheap, 

So  while  the  old  fellow  was  snoring  asleep. 
With  a  lad  and  a  ladder  she  managed  to  creep 

Over  the  garden  wall. 

519 


ktt  ih  ^wnlhm  MmmntA  (Jig 


English  Words  by  P.  H.  GORDON. 


K-mc  by  F^UZ  ABT. 


te 


5=±i-^£— ^ 


S 


St^zM: 


1.  When  the 


Andantino. 


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f*— fri    I       S— ^ 


I     r        K 


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swal  -  lows  homeward  fly,  When  the     ro      -      ses    scatter'd  lie,  When  from 


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s 


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:S=^=* 


nei    -    ther  hill    nor  dale,         Chants  the    silr  -tj   night  -  in  -  gale,  In      these 


jE± 


2=i 


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620 


:s^  -^ 


WHET^     THE      SWALLOWS      HOMEWARD      PLY. 


rU. 


ten.  pp  tempo.     ^ 


^ 


^=f?: 


it^zzfet: 


^      y  'i  - 

■words     my  bleeding  heart    Would   to    thee  its  grief  im  -  part,      When         I 


-mm^mm   » — \-mk-^-» — m 


rit.  «^ 


PP 


tempo. 


,):    »0-m-m  m  ^  [^000*  0    \mmM  m  ^  w~jt^ 


^M  m  0  \mmmmm  m—im 

I    I    L~rrr-i  I  I    I     jL 


2  When  the  white  swan  southward  roves, 
There  to  seek  the  orange  groves, 
When  the  red  tints  of  the  west 
Prove  the  sun  has  gone  to  rest ; 
In  these  words  my  bleeding  heart 
Would  to  thee  its  grief  impart. 
When  I  thus  thy  image  lose, 
Can  I,  ah  I  can  I  e'er  kncvr  repose  ? 


3  Hush  I  my  heart,  why  thus  complain? 
Thou  must  too,  thy  woes  contain ; 
Though  on  earth  no  more  we  rove 
Loudly  breathing  vows  of  love; 
Thou  my  heart  must  find  relief, 
Yielding  to  these  words,  belief: 
I  shall  see  thy  form  again. 
Though  to-day  we  part  in  paia.  fn\ 


**^mt  §atlt  t0  (gp/* 


PIANO. 


Words  and  Music  by  CLAEIBEL. 

Moderato. _____^__^        8pa.. 


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Ped.  ii:Ped.       . 


rtt. 


j=^^:f^^^i#^^ 


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ati:* 


ffcziitS 


^ 


1  Com«  back  to  E  -  rin,  Ma  -  Tour-neen,  Mavoumeen,   Come  back,  Aroon,    to  the    land     of  thy  birth 

2  0-  ver  the  green  sea,  Ma-vour-neen,  Mavoumeen,   Lon«  shone  the  white  sail  that  bore  thee  a  -  way , 

3  Oh,      may  the  an  -  gels,  while  wak-in' or  sleep-in',     Watch  o'er  my  bird  in  the    land    far    a  -  way 

col.  voce. 


^^^ 


Come  with  the  shamrocks  and  spring-time,  Mavoumeen,   And    its   Kil-lar  -  ney  shall  ring  with  our  mirth. 
Rid  -  ing  the  white  waves  that  fair  summermom-in'       Just  like    a  May-flower  a  -  float    on  the  bay. 
And     its  my  prayers  will  consign    to  their  keep-in',       Care    o'    my  jew  -  el     by  night  and  by  day. 


^^^t^g^^ 


r  !  L  L- 

— I la  .  #   F- 


fi't: 


Sure,  when  ye  left  us,  our  beau  -  ti  -  ful  dar  -  ling. 
Oh,  but  my  lieart  sank  when  clouds  came  between  us, 
M'hen  by  the  fire-side    I      watch    the  bright  em-ben, 


r^ 


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w^ 


■•-«"«■  ••"••^  ^ 


*-••■•• 


OOME   BACK  TO  ERIN. 


^^^^i=^i^^^^f=^f=Ci^^^m^^ 


Lit  -  tie   we  thought  of    the     lone   win-ter  days,  Lit   -tie    we  thought  of  the  hush  of  the  Btarshine, 

Like     a  grey  cur  -  tain  the     rain    lal  -  ling  down,         Hid  from  my  sad  eyes  the  path   o'er  the  o  -  cean. 
Then    all  my  heart    flies    a  •  way  o'er  the  sea,  Cra  -  yin'  to  know  if  my    dar  -  lin'  remem  -  bera. 


^ 


i:|5; 


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7"v";; •!— •-•^ 


■»r    TiT 


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•"•"•• 

a 


=#=¥ 


:fl^ 


* 


rT 


:g 


rm 


'f 


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Animato. 


a^g^ 


^ 


;3 


^5^=^ 


Overthemountain,  the  Blutfaand  the  Brays.  Then  come  back  to  K     -    rin,    Ma-Tour  -  neea,  Mavoar  -  neen. 
Far,  faraway  where  my  colleen  had  flown.  Then  come  back  to  E     -    rln,  etc. 
Or    if  her  thoughts  may  be  crosain'  to  me.  Then  come  bacZi  to  B     •    rin,  etc. 


M.        V  >» 


§ 


§i£l=itii 


geS^EM^-gj^^jU 


It 


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f: 


^ 


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PeJ.I 


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»our  -  neen,  Ma-vour  -  neen,  And       its    Kil  -  lar  -  ney  shall  ntg  with  our  mirth. 

8ra , ,.... 

4s: « ,-,_^i! — 


-^-#- 


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523 


©ak  3mI  ih  Heart 


I  ^  I » 


Composed  by  CLAEIBEL. 


^  Allegretto. 


i 


?2= 


S    d    S- 


3t=^ 


^ 


5 


vest,  What  is     my    anguish  to      thee? 

ken,  Time  flings  its  fetters  o'er   thee,  . 


1.  Take  back  the  heart  that  thou  ga 

2.  Then  when  at  last  o  -  ver   ta 


_l_  !  1^    j-J-t-^     !    !-g  ;    !  I.     I — [ 


^=^ 


:n=«t= 


P 


-•^-^ 


tt*-  -^ 


^f^ 


-p— f=- 


-p— f=- 


i      r    r 


r± 


2i: 


2± 


Take  back  the  freedom  thou  era 
Come  with  a  trust  still  un  -  sha 


vest, 
ken, 


Leaving  the  fet-ters     to 
Come  back  a    cap-tive  to 


-^ 


dim. 


^ 


:?2=^ 


^fe 


i^ 


-p— ?- 


-p-p- 


:^ 


zs: 


tS*- 


3ip=p: 


F=^ 


St 


^1=:?: 


:it=*t 


me, 
me. 


Take  back  the    tows  thou  hast  spo 
Come  back  in      sad  -  ness  or      sor 


ken, 
row. 


Fling  them    a  - 
Once  more  my 


W 


ca  . 


-'I'-i;^ 


-p — p- 


-p— p- 


:^==: 


524^ 


TAKE      BACK      THE      HEART. 


$ 


side    and    be      free,  .... 
dar  -  ling    to      be, 


atnzt 


^    \m 


:ff=:c2 


i^ 


-.z± 


Smile  o'er  each  pi  -  ti  -  ful       to     -     -     ken. 
Come  as      of      old,  love,  to      bor       -       row. 


i; 


1==T 


|=|r^-i^¥i+^i=4 


-* — w 


fl^^E 


e 


^ 


-K P- 


-p — p- 


^^= 


^ 


ran. 


i 


^- » 


?=: 


l-?d 


?= 


S^ 


i^    t^    ti 


4t*^ " — ^ 

Leaving  the    sorrow    for      me 
Glimpses  of      sunlight  from  me 


^ 


Drink  deep  of  life's  fond    il  -   lu 
Love  shall  resume     her     do  •  min 


^ 


ife 


!P=S=j^ 


5S! 


i^^i^^^^ 


^ 


^» 


x-r 


raU. 


~-?^- 


izL 


^ 


-p — P- 


-P — P- 


s: 


:^~7:?      p: 


4-- 


St=:*=i*=«=^ 


-id      m      ^ 


^ — ai- 


sion,         Gaze  on  the  storm-cloud  and  flee, 
ion,  Striving  no   more  to  be  free, 


Swift-ly    thro'  strife  and   con 
When  on     her   world  wea-ry 


=1^== 


?2: 


zi: 


^ 


'3tL=^ 


-P-P- 


zi: 


£j.-: vm. 


Leaving  the   burden     to      me. 
Flies  back  my  lost  love  to 


'      ^     riX. 


iSzI 


^- 


3^ 


9t. . 


525 


SH  fetter  in  th^  dfandk 


"TTritten  by  J.  CLASKE. 

3foderato. 


PIANO. 


Composed  by  R.  COOTE. 


^PW^^^B 


bfc?: 


::?»: 


^:d±ff=l^ 


3*=S: 


1.  There's  a       let-ter  in  the  can  -  die,  It     points di-rect  to  me;  How  the 

2.  Hope  and  fear  a-like  perplex    me ;  Oh  !  su-per-sti-tious  dread ;  How 

3.  How      glad-ly  I    re-mem -ber/Tls  two  short  month8,nomore,Since  a 


*«: 


-01. — ^-=^- 


i 


^ 


--^'^B: 


P 


H?^ 


-^— p- 


.1    r 


-=?— p- 


Cuw 


bfc«: 


lit  -  tie  spark  is  shining,  From  whomever  can  it  be  ?  It  gets  brighter  still  and  brighter,Like  a 

ma-ny  i  -  die  fan-cies  You  con-jure  in  my  head.  "When  those  we  love  are  absent,  How 

let  -  ter  in  the  can-die  Shone  out  as  bright  before.  Then  the  darling  messenger  Came 


-•i ^-=1- 


^P^W 


qsn=t: 


^^- 


J-J  •>  *- 


cres. 


W^^ 


|--4g=fefc£ 


^— P- 


1^=P= 


=P^ 


-^i 


-K-N- 


-K-V 


i— ^-  -ml H — P — t— «! F ^ 


t=^J-^^i^^it=F P-g 


il^injn^ 


^^ 


at*: 


■M  J    J-J-g 


1^ 


lit  -  tie  sun-ny  ray,  And  I  dare  to  guess  the  writer,  For  it  drives  suspense  away, 
wan-ton-ly  you  play,  Ev'-ry  shadow  seems  a  substance.  And  drives  suspense  away, 
prompt  and  safe  to  me.      If       this  is  on-ly  from  the  same,  How  welcome  it  shall  be. 


THE  LETTER  IN  THE  CANDLE. 

o:bc  OX1.XTS. 


SOPRA. 
ALTO. 


TENOR, 
BASS, 


m/ 


^gg^^i^E^I^ 


tj 


'■^—<m      ^-r-im- 


^M 


U  I; 

Bright  spark  of    hope, 


^M:-p- 


I 

mf 


V     ^ 


t  %y  I — ra 


-tfi*: 


i;z2=iijz=ii|3at 


^=^—^7^ 


m/ 


32- 


M 


:i?=e 


fs=s: 


^^33^ 


'W~f^W%' 


L'  t  L^  U 

Shed  your  beams  on  me, 


q?=f?: 


^^e*: 


^   ¥   ¥   ^- 


f 


=5; 


And  send      a  lov-ing 


fe?  t^  '^  '* 


^  •<  ^  f  '  .^ :      -g. 


1^^^: 


=1^ 


^ 


:=t« 


S:>^ 


^-1^ 


:Sf=5=*^ 


r 


d»'  T  .    a< 


1$..^.  .^- 


"flP WW 


Bright  spark  of       hope, 

^ 


message      From      far       across  the      sea, 


-i^-t^- 


i 


fc»: 


3«1==f5 


-P^ 


— 1-^ "1 h-=l 1 -r-^ 

Sr^ -J. '  j;^      i^^^ 


^^ 


u^zzif?: 


-=Mp^ 


-S)-- 


:ltzzj»=t=te 


^Tlg— V 


^  V  ^  ^ 
Shed  your  beams  on  me,      And  speed  the  lov-ing  mes-sage  From  far  a-cross  the    sea. 


^^^^^ 


Words  by  ALICE  HAWTHORNE. 

Moderato.  -^ 


Music  by  SEP.  WHTNER. 

rail. 


PIANO. 


feva-  irffYrm^^^^^m 


r 


Voict. 


1^^ 


J^: 


221 


:p=«t 


1.  There  are  friends  that  we  never  for  -  get There  are  hearts  that  we  ev-er  hold 

2.  There  are  friends  that  we  never  for  -  get The'   the  seas  may  di-vide    us   for 


( 


:^^ 


I  I  r       I     ^ 


:m=^- 


P 


:$:« 


^ 


^^=4= 


zj^mm 


rjiij:         ig::^ 


d= 


2± 


ri: 


T5^ 


N    I      I    -J- 


==>=^ 


itF 


:^=?^ 


dear, 
years. 


*E§^E^ 


atfntiii 


Tho'  we  meet  with  a  kiss  in     a  mo-ment  of  bliss,  Yet  we  part  with  a 
Yet  we  lin-ger     a-  part  with  a  sor-row-ing  heart,  In  an  absence  that 


:|s=?T 


===«^ 


*=ifc^    J    J: 


±Bz^. 


Oh  we  learn  our  first  lesson   of  love, 
There  are  friends  that  we  never  forget, 


At  the 
There  ar» 


\ — kr     I      [ 


— p- 


^^t=i^ 


:i=il= 


T^-»r 


-m-w 


-m-  -m-        -m-  -m- 
.-^-  -*-         r^-  -9- 


-rzL 


■&r 


■25^ 


By  permission  of  Sep.  Winner. 


i 


THESE     ARE     FRIENDS     THAT     WE     NEVER     FOROET. 
' ^     rail,     tempo. 


K^ 


=P 


-^—m- 


ZSZIMl 


?2= 


W^^T^ 


3^! 


p:i3?=7E 


home  where  our  childhood  is  passed,  And  we    nev-er    for  -  get  tho'  we  part  with  re- 

hearts  that  we  ev  -  er  hold  dear,  Tho'  we  find   but  a   few  who  are  earnest  and 


1 


I    r       I      14^ 


^ — h 


rail.       tempo. 


I 


^ 


■<s»- 


zst 


Chorus. 


i=?=t: 


:p3t 


^  J  i^ 


2± 


gret,         The  friends  of  our  youth  till  the  last , 
true,     Yet  how  sweet  is  our  passing  ca  -  reer. 


22 


^ 


IBQEEEi^ 


There  are  friends,  there  are  friridi  that  v* 


-M       I        I      ^ 


i 


^^^ 


-»r»r 


:^:S:  '^ 


m 


-rs 


z^ 


2^ 


-1=— P- 


-P— f=- 


nev  -  er  for  -  get ;  There  are  hearts  that  we  erer  hold  dear. 


Tho'  we  meet  with  a 


^^^^ 


■P — itil-^P^^^ 


«— «-  -F «— •-  -F — f— ^ 1= al a(- 


^* 


i= 


^=^=t 


-p— p- 


-p— p- 


-p— p- 


-p— p- 


r     r      -^   r    r 


rail. 


■  ill     h  h|  =t=7 


^ 


^^^ 


■9-  -^  :^ 


kias,     in       a      mo-ment  of  bliss.  Yet  we  part  with  a   sigh  and   a    tear. 

rail. 


:$=p^ 


h      I      I   :r=t=ij= 


r     J 


q=^==t: 


ir 


1 1 1*1 


(^ 


-p — p- 


34 


:^ 


629 


^ooA  §ge,  ^«rcctkaj[t,  €mA  Igt 


JOHN  L.  BATTON. 


Andante  con  moto. 


PIANO. 


ti^^ 


_^_.^ — ^ 

The  bright    stars      fade,       the 
The  tun         ig  up,        the 

legato. 


£^- 


p  rim 

I  i-*^ — s- 


h* — m- 


?E^ 


I 


te 


^ 


1 


:t^=t2: 


:k=4: 


morn      is      break  -  ing,   The  dew      drops    pearl       each     bud and  leaf,    And 

lark        is       soar  -  ing,  Loud  swells     the       song         of        chan     -     -      ti-cleer ;    Th« 


^ 


Ss 


117 


1 


1=21 


-^ 


p 


■^ 


I^C 


4i^ 


:tE=t2 


q!?=*: 


1       from    thee        my     leave      am       tak  -  ing.   With  bliss       too    brief,       with 
IcT  -  ret     bounds    o'er    earth's  soft      floor  -  ing.    Yet       I  am     here,        yet 


bliss      too       brief,         with       bliss 
I  am       here,         yet  I.. 


too     brief, 
am     here. 


How 
For 


g 


-rrjr^ 


^SMMM^i^k^m-^m 


F" 


1 — r 


i3U 


GOOD     BTE,     SWXXTHSAItT,     GOOD     BTK. 


^ 


J         J 


sinks        my      heart    with    fond  a  -  larms,      The     tear  is  hid    -    ing 

since      night's  gems     from     heaT'n      did     fade,        And   morn         to  flo     -     ral 


in       my      eye,    For  time  doth       thrust     me  from      thine      arms ;  "  Good 

lips     doth     hie,       I  could  not         leave       thee,  tho'  I  said,    "  Good 


^=m: 


I 


r-ji^ 


I 


:i^ 


i 


con  mo'o. 


5 


?^ 


t^^r-rz^ 


*<      *< 


^ 


bye,      Bweet-heart,       good     bye  I 
bye,      sweet-heart,        good     bye  I 


Good       bye,      sweet-heart,      good 
Good       bye,      sweet-heart,      good 


-^zt. 


l^ 


■t!^ 


i 


cres  molto. 


^ 


bye  I " 
bye  I  " 


For  time  doth 

I  could  not 


thrust  me 

leaTe  thee, 


PTrlj^ 


S        d 


-=1 ^■ 


T=t 


1=2L 


i 


221 


from  thine  arms,      "  Good   bye,         sweet    -    heart,  good   bye  I " 

the'  I  said,        "  Good   bye,         sweet    -    heart,  good   bye ! " 


-^ii: ^ 


-JZiL 


^ 


531 


^hti  Mur  Jittif  ^hammi 


CHEEE7. 


Moderato. 


1t^- 


^LS 


=p3^ 


5E3 


-K Kt-4 


^ 


:^       J     ^ 


K      K 


litai 


itz^zziitz^ 


.1 .  There's  a     dear      lit  -  tie   plant     that  grows  in  our  Isle,  'Twas  Saint 


S-JJ  1 1  U 


1 


*3 


it=i|: 


:5t=^ 


inr 


-« — m al al m—m- 


P5=S: 


ftr:1^: 


i 


-? — p- 


-p — P- 


-p_r-- 


E3S 


^-^r 


f:=p: 


4=— P- 


|»         m 


X) 


Pat  •  rick  him  •  self    sure  that     set      it ; 


And   the      sun      on        his 


h.      I 


:i==a!: 


"•^ y 


/ 


:r=F 


221 


-p— 


■B   r  ^  r 


^ — p- 


S-— 


^ 


:f5=s: 


^        d      J 


la  -  bor    with    plea-sure    did      smile,   And  with  dew   from  his      eye     of  -  ten 


i 


^ 


at=3=f* 


*v^ 


?=: 


■gL    ^     -J. 


5 


22: 


is?- 


«t=^ 


zgr-^.  -^  -^ 


iS 


^ 


=p2: 


532 


THB      DEAR      LITTLE      SHAMROCK. 


i 


Ltf     I       I, 


^^-^~m0-^  J       ^ 


W 


^=^- 


1=L 


wet    it. 


It    shines  thro' the  bog,  thro' the  brake,  and  the  mire-land,  And  he 


i 


i 


w=^ 


^*^ 


^-*^ 


-^■~ir~-ir 


fe^-J     1 1 i 


^-^        ^^ 


^==p: 


1^2^ 


J    ^    -- 


Stzzit 


i 


s 


^^ 


:S==it 


f 


^S==J5 


call'd  it     the     dear   lit -tie    Shamrock  of      Ire-land,  The  dear  lit-tle   Shamrock,  the 


* — #- 


p^ 


^^ 


i 


?=: 


:pc=*^ 


:Sf±: 


r 


.  ^    ^ 


atizit 


sweet  lit-tle    Shamrock,  the    dear  lit  -  tie,  sweet  lit  -  tie    Shamrock    of      Ire  -  land. 


-«     ^ 


l(=^=3g 


T-K 


^^ 


:tl*: 


£S 


>     ^ 


:^Ptz: 


That  dear  little  plant  still  grows  in  our  land, 

Fresh  and  fair  as  the  daughters  of  Erin; 

Whose  smiles  can  bewitch  and  whose  eyes  can  command, 

In  each  climate  they  ever  appear  in. 

For  they  shine  thro'  the  bog,  thro'  brake,  and  the  mireland, 
Just  like  their  own  dear  little  Shamrock  of  Ireland, 
The  dear  little  Shamrock,  the  sweet  little  Shamrock, 
Tke  dear  little,  sweet  little  Shamrock  of  Ireland. 


That  dear  little  plant  that  springs  from  our  soil, 

When  its  three  little  leaves  are  extended; 

Denotes  from  the  stalk  we  together  should  toil, 

And  ourselves  by  ourselves  be  befriended. 

And  still  thro'  the  bog,  thro'  the  brake,  and  the  mireland, 
From  one  root  should  branch  like  the  Shamrock  of  Ireland, 
The  dear  little  Shamrock,  the  sweet  little  Shamrock, 
The  dear  little,  sweet  little  Shamrock  of  Ireland. 

533 


Sotf  Jate  k  llflarrg. 


Words  by  W.  E  BELLAMY.      Music  by  R.  SEDNEI  PEATTEN. 


S 


-^m-        •^-'■t—  ^  -m- 


■^-^-m-r^ 


-^-m-'f^: 


i 


=s:* 


;rr^r— 1= 


=1^-^: 


^^i^^^i 


1.  A  maid   -    en    fair      and   young, 

2.  A  -  way       the  maid  -  en     went. 


Went  forth,    one  mom      in    May;  Up 

And  joined  eachfes   -    tive  throng;  On 


-==t=F 


:=lz«. 


m 


^3^    ^3>     ^^Zy   ^3>     ^3>    ^3>        ^^ 


:??5i=:^32=: 


^ 


':^S^ 


:i:i: 


-SI— •! 5^ 


:^==5::M: 


=T 


:il=5l 


=Sp=f 


■m • — ■ 1 


liz^tt: 


on  a  bough,  there  sang 

pleas  -  ures  whirl     in  -  tent, 


A   bird,      that  seem'd  to    say,  "  Why 

And  lin    -    ger'd  late    and  long ;  "  I'll 


TOO  LATE  TO  MARRY! 


Soon,  soon  'twill   be        too    late." 
Sang    she,   witli  joy        e  -  late. 


JZ — i*?^_Z^_H! E 


^'  la,         la,  la!        tra,  la,  la,    la,  la!      Tra,  la,  la,  la! 


Tra,  la,    la,   la,  la !     Tra, 


^■^i^^ 
* 


ij;:^      :•: -•'^   tt^^*-    9^w»-    m^w^    »*:g:      rjij:    i^ 


— --^ ^-p- p^S — r±T=t — z±-^-=t — zr=1: :ir^ •<-  * — IF- 


3r~29l"~2'3r~59:    :5)r 


IT- ijL :^:z^^~-,^L^-^ rz^:_v jiz^^^-zf^T— -^— gzr* mrzrc 


la,         la,  la !        tra,     la,   la,  la,  la !  tra,  la,   la,  la,  la,  la,  la,   la,    la ! 


■^3z^-^5^zz| 


I  J       I— — ^—  /> ^ 

*        *^3-      -wd-^        \    -^  -3-  -±  * 


-^      -^. 


-*--^- 


<1 


III        u 


-r 


3,  Time  flew  as  on  she  stray'd 

Through  Fashion's  giddy  round ; 
With  many  a  heart  she  play'd, 
And  laughed  at  ev'ry  wound. 
"  Too  late  !  Too  late ! 
Old  Time  itself  shall  wait!" 
Tra,  la,  la,  &c. 


4.  Then  came  tlie  first  grey  hair. 

And  looks  and  hearts  grew  cold. 
And  wrinkles  here  and  there, 
Their  tale  unwelcome  told  ! 
Hard  fate  !  Too  late  ! 
She  sang,  disconsolate ! 
Tra,  la,  la,  kc 

535 


tit  §0ttr  ^h0ttl^i[ii  t0  the  Mhed; 


OR, 


"3i|R0tto  for  tons  Pan." 

6St>mposed(  and  Arranged  for  the  JPiano^Forte, 

By  HAERY  CLIFTON. 


JMi->-h-K-fN— »r=?f=l*5 


'inizMzM'z^. 


^int 


:i;=g: 


"s-m-m-m- 


i2=tM?: 


B^l-^^^:^ 


"kf 


1.  Some  people  you've  met  in  your  time  no  doubt.  Who  never  look  happy  or    gay  .... 

2.  We  c.iii-not  all  fight  in  this    bat-tie     of  life.     The  weak  must  go   to     the   wall, So 


:ii 


tell  you  the  way  to  get    jol-Iy  and  stout,  If  you'll  lis-ten  a-while  to   my     lay I've 

do   to  each  other  ihe  thing  that  is  right.  For  there's  room  in  this  world  for  us  all 


:P=5: 


r^- 


S 


a^ 


M-=m-^-M-=m' 


_^E__5I|: 


jnH" 


^^ 


-=^s»- 


s 


^—5 


ZT 


-**- 


1f=ff: 


^:iri: 


:n=at 


«^i^ 


f=^ 


f 


1    1 


tr 


M- 

^j^ 


:l^=krtzz;?^-|^: 


F=^:=f^ 


v-y- 


^^^^^^ 


come  here  to  tell  you  a     bit   of  my  mind.  And  please  with  the  name  if  I  can, Ad- 

«  Credit  refuse,"  if  you're  money  to   pay,  You'll  find  it   the   wi»    -    er  plan, And"* 

%t~-\, ^  I  *t*iu  ^j Lw-j i^^-i ^!- 


-4 P        *r*u  pJ L^J ►r-l ^    '^ 


^ 


=s 


ritard. 


530 


^"^ 


PUT  YOUR  SHOULDER  TO  THE  WHEEL. 


^^    rihhhKh|F**i=fg 


:p=s= 


Vi — ^-J!|:p=g 


w=^ 


:*=* 


^  ^  ^  ^  ^ 


^ 


Tioe  in  my  song  70a  will  cer-tain-ly   find.     And   a    motto    for   ev  -  e  -  ry     man. 
pen  -  ny  laid  by  for    a      rain     -    y  day"     Is      a    motto    for  ev  -  e  -  ry     man. 


— I 1— = 1 1-  -= 1 1 — 5 — I 1 1 = 


^^ 


^=t 


^ 


:^=^ 


S^i 


-SM- 


C  K  O  R  U  S. 


r=: 


1^ 


:J^=Jr- 


-W-^ 


we    will  sing, 


and  ban  -  ish  mel  -  an  -  cho    -    ly, 


Trou    -    ble        may 


^im^^m^ 


^3f=^ 


'ir  1    1     1   ^TT I     1-4 


r=^='j 


^ 


^  >  N 


:^=1m: 


10 1 iSW 1 ^-I — »^_ 


it^ 


grieving  is     a      fol  -  ly,        Putyour  shoulder  to  the  wheel  is  a  motto  forev'-  ry      man. 


-^-j| — ^  -ad ^5-^ — ^ 


r 


^  1  r  1  1  Uil-s-q  J-q  g-  :^-q.!^ail  •"  "^  3^r«^  *r'a-=i-  T-   ""^t^^ 


n-^ 


!         I        I    I  ! 


#-       T^ 


3  A  coward  srives  in  at  the  first  repulse, 

A  brave  man  struggles  again. 
With  a  resolute  eye  and  a  bounding  pulse. 

To  battle  his  way  amongst  men  ; 
For  he  knows  he  has  only  one  chance  in  his  time, 

To  better  himself  if  he  can, 
**So  make  your  hay  while  the  sun  doth  shine," 

That's  a  motto  for  every  man. — Chorus. 


537 


Written  by  CHABLES  LINSA.  Composed  by  CAELO  HH^ASL 

Allegretto  moderato. 


PIANO. 


1  There's  nothing  half  bo  charming  As        a    hap-py  married  life,  And  nothing  so    a  - 

2  A  wife  will  sure  -  ly    rule  the  roost,   Of  course  that's  very  proper.    And    if  she  means  to 

3  A  woman's  sure   to    have  her  way,    For  that  we  cannot  blame  her ;  The  rem-e-dy  I  ah, 

4  That  wo  -  man  is     our  great-est  joy,      Let  ev'-ry  man  re-flect ;         Don't  treat  her  like  a 


larm-ing  as 
rule  you  too, 
then  I    say, 
worth-less  toy, 


A    vix  -  en  for     a       wife.  But  as  you  make  your  bed  you  know,  So 

I  don't  think  you  can  stop  her ;       Be  nev  -  er  cru  -  el,  always  kind,  Do 
•'  'Tis  kind-ness  that  will  tame  her."      Be     al-ways  gentle,  never  harsh.  And 
Nor  slight  her  by    ne  -  gleet.  If    you  possess  a  woman's  love.  What 


^    1    |l 


y-^  h  J  d-^'l 


ir*^ 


*ir 


-^ 


raU. 


m^:^=^^  .  rj    J 


+-  -7^ 


St=: 


raU. 


rail. 


g 


m 


3ttf 


S 


at 


■=iC 


on  it  you  must    lie ;        'Tis  useless  then  to  make  a  fuss.  Take  my  advice,  don't  try. 
nothing  that  will  tease  her.  And  if  you  wish  to  happy  live,  You'll  do  your  best  to  please  her. 
mind  you  do  not  flout  her.  Remember  you're  but  helpless  men,  And  can  not  do  without  her. 
more  does  a  -  ny  need  ?        In  sicknese  or  in  health  she'll  be,  A  comforter  in  -  deed. 


m 


rail.  colla  voce.         rtten. 


^ 


^ 


i 


S-i   M  1 


:?S[^ 


•i     1 


i^ 


538 


A    VTXEN    FOR    A    WIFE. 


O^OZ1.T7S. 


Moderato. 


i 


'^=^:m 


:^ 


:l3it 


i 


-4^^ 


A    wo     -     man's  sure  to       go  her    way,  But         when       she's 


:3=! 


m 


4f* 


Its*: 


ii 


4-y 


22 


J^ 


£=|i 


m 


4fc=^ 


J    ^    fi 


^5 


^ 


4: 


g^^ 


0   f   0 


22: 


22. 


;=i^ 


gone,  we    miss    her; 


•i 


3 


So       if        you've  had         an      an    -    gry 


5^=^ 


12=^ 


r=t=t 


■2=^ 


^ 


i:^ 


2=t 


word,     Why        call 


her        hack 


and        kiss     her. 


2:± 


^■^ c* 


^^ 


^^ 


-rzt- 


m 


22 


^^ 


m 


I 


^=^ 


i^pli 


*=* 


fiffr 


^g-^ 

)*   ^ 


Bva. 


crcs.  ^ 


539 


c^ar  ^tcag. 


Wamc  by  Mrs.  J.  W.  BLISS  and  Miss  M.  LINSSA7. 


Modo. 


li^=X 


ipzzp: 


-r—r- 


^—m—^ 


^^E=^ 


^^^=^ 


-V — t^ 


1  Where  is        now 

2  Some  have    gone 

3  There  are     still 


the  mer  -  ry       par    -    ty        I      re  -  mem    -    ber  long    a  - 
to   lands  far       dis    -   tant    And  with    stran  -  gers  made  their 
some  few   re  -  main  -  ing     Who  re  -   mind  us    of    the 


m 


P 


K    K    h 


ISrt* 


-^z::S=M=:z=i. 


atiat 


go ;  Laughing  round        the  Christmas  fires,       Brighten'd  by  its  rud-dy 

home,  Some  up  -  on  the  world  of  wa  -  ters   All  their  lives       are  forc'd  to 

past,  But  they  change    as  all  things  change  here  :  Nothing   in         this  world  can 


-« f- — 


^S-^- 


*=* 


540 


PAR     AWAY. 


:J!!=I^ 


:isa^ 


:|i^=:t 


qi5=fs: 


-f\-Xw 


E 


lit*: 


#i  y  **   "^       •  ' 

Or  in  summer's  balmy   eve  -  nings, 
Some  are  gone  from  us  for-ev    -    er, 
Years  roll  on  and  pass  for  -  ev    -    er, 


glow, 

roam; 

last. 


4 


In  the  field  upon  the 

Longer  here  they  might  not 

What  is  coming,  who  can 


^=^- 


1^1 


m 


£^ 


itd 


un  poco  ores, 


^^^ 


JXfO- 


k    W- 


$ 


p 


'W=W^ 


:^=^ 


:fct 


zft=Mt 


iO?: 


:tc=t£ 


± 


^-y- 

They  have  all        dispers'd  and  wan-der'd  Far  a  -  way,  Far  a 

They  have  reach'd   a   fair-er       re  -  gion  Far  a  -  way,  Far  a 

Ere  this    clo     -     ses,  ma-ny    may    be  Far  a  •  way,  Far  a 


hay? 

stay 

say? 


way, 
way, 
way, 


They  have  all  dispers'd  and  wan-der'd  Far  a  -  way. 
They  have  reach'd  a  fair-er  re  -  gion  Far  a  -  way, 
Ere  this     clo    -    ses,  ma-ny      may    be     Far    a  -  way, 


Far  a 
Far  a 
Far    a 


r3E 


**Jt^_JM-^_f-^ 


1^=!it 


s^ 


■^ 


=»= 


i — r 


^=^ 


*   * 


^ 


a 


■J^^ 


my. 
way. 

way. 


***: 


SES 


A^t^X-itf: 


-G>^ 


^=^ 


^^=^ 


iist±t 


H • 1 hi ^ 1 1- 

t^  1^  'i — t ^"^ 


mf 

■m-  '' 


:J=t 


k     1     I* 


541 


Wimit  mi  Wimi  mi 


OR, 


'^gou  gmri  lliss  the  Wini^Y^  mil  iht  Wi^M  |luns  ir^/' 


PIANO. 


EOLAND  HOWASD. 


qt^lE 


( ' ^ 


When  a  child     I     liv'd     at     Lin  -  coin,  with  my 
As  years  roU'd  on       I    grew    to      be,      a 
When  I        ar- rived    at    man -hood,  I      em- 
Then  I  stud  -  ied  strict    e  -  con  -  o  -   my,   and 
I'm  mar-ried  now  and  hap  -  py,    I've    a 


T 


WE 


151^ 


J^ 


r-4 

ff- 

->-is- 

K  ■ 

w           w 

■ 

'■ 

7v— 

,_J   ...J?.. 

..  K-    ^.  .   ,  .. 

ita — 

"K 

!«     -  *• ^     -jj        ~5     ^   . 

t^ 

h 

^^- 

— - — •<— 

-j—^ — d~ 

— p— 

3 

_J;        -V— J^     ^  .     m^    ^-"—^ 

i^ 

■ 

tJ 

pa  -  rents 
mis  -  chief 
bark'd  in 
found   to 

care  -  ful 

•         *  • 

at     the  farm, 
mak  -  ing    boy, 
pub  -  lie     life, 
my     sur  -  prise, 
lit  -  tie    wife, 

4^ 

The 
De    - 
And 

My 
We 

les  - 
etruc  - 
found 
funds 

live 

sons   that      my  moth  -  er  taught,   to 
tion  seem'd  my     on    -   ly    sport,      it 
it     was       a      rug  -  ged  road,     be- 
in  -  stead    of     sink  -  ing,    ver    -    y 
in   peace    and  har  -  mo  -  ny,      de- 

/ 

J-*t.                  .    .4 

..   .     4-        •    ■          -          -4 

_ 

r 

V- 

— F 

_^ p_ 

-J 

fS 

_l (= _j 

- 

^"-V 

s 

a                              ""1 

)tj 

1 

■9- 

1 

. «! 

4^ 

: j : , 

l^'^— 

1 

~i  ■ 

~^ 

-^ 

[= k; F 

- 

-W- 

Js—X\- 


3± 


5=^ 


W- 


:e=p: 


me    were  quite      a    charm.  She  would      oft  -  en    take    me     on    her  knee  when 

was      my      on     -    ly      joy,  And            well     do       I       re  -  mem  -  ber,     when 

strewn   with  care      and  Btrife ;  I              spec  -  u   -   la  -  ted     fool  -  ish  -  ly,    my 

quick  -  ly    then      did    rise,  I            grasp'd  each  chance  and  al  -  ways  struck  the 

void       of    care      and  strife.  For  -  tune  smiles  up  -  on     us,     we  have 


53- 


542 


w=^. 


JBPi: 


■ses; 


4 


WASTE     KOT,    WANT     NOT. 


n  it 

s 

n\ 

7l 

1         S                K 

k.      s        C*      s 

■  -ji 

W         r       S       1         1 

^ 

K 

»-       K 

B     ?    _p     r* 

s 

■  m\ 

J         i      J 

N 

fc       1 

_i^    W  •     •      m  ' 

p 

\n|/ 

W               J 

^ 

_i^    ^  • 

m       ^                  ^ 

•           •    ••  • 

tired    of   child  -  ish   play, 

oft    times  well  chaa-tised, 

loss  -  es    were    se  -  vere, 

i  -  ron  while  'twas  hot, 

lit  -  tie  chil-dren  three, 

And 
How 
But 
I 
The 

as 

.    fa  - 
still 
seiz'd 
les  - 

■-0      m 
she  press'd 
ther    sat 

a       ti    - 
my      op  - 
son    that 

nie      to       her  breast, 
be  -  side    me    then 
ny      lit    -    tie    voice 
por  -  til    -    ni  -  ties 
I     teach  them,  as 

I've 

and 

kept 

and 

they 

/ 

Jr 

' 

I                     1 

/ 

r-                           1                     » 

fill 

I 

liH          '                        i                  '               1 

\ 

VU                              J                               ! 

51                « 

1 

1 

i 

t.' 

-9- 
1                                1 

-f- 

-9- 

^                  -lir 

/ 

^•}jg- 

-M = M— 

— -] s H \ — 

- 

\ 

^— 

=i J 

' 1 — 

V^— •!— 

1 1 — 



z 

^      ^ 


/ 


j^LJS^    ^-Ji 


^^ 


^ 


w— a— y 


heard  my  moth-er  say 
thus  has  me  ad-vis'd 
whisp-'ring  in  my  ear 
nev  -  er  once  for  -  got 
prat  -  tie  'round  my  knee 


Waste  not,  want  not,  is       a     max  -  im    I  would  teach, 


/ 


^^ 


::t 


K   te  s  g 


m 


53i^3^ 


=S=^ 


:c± 


ifzaifitzit 


Let  your  watchword  be  despatch,  and  practice  what  you  preach,    Do  not  let  your  chances,  like 


-« «f- 


Wi 


^^* 


^*, 


m 


-^*t* 


'^Mzi^^^=:Jl-^l^-^^--^ij5^ 


sunbeams  pass  you  by.    For  you  nev  -  er  miss  the  wat  -  er  till     the     well   runs  dry. 


-H: 


il=:^^: 


^: 


jdi 


,  I    I 

z:|=^zzz:i?z:lj 


543 


Mmn  0f  ^n^th'  Wm%, 


»  ^  ■ » 


Poetry  by  J.  E.  CABFENTEB. 


Ifnsic  by  SOLITAIBE. 


MOJ>ERATO. 


PIANO. 


p 


cres. 


S^EE 


raZZ. 


I=fe 


^ 


-^-^ 


?»=;sr 


2=p: 


^ 

W^ 


<1 

Oh  1    what  is  that  ra  -  diant    glo  -  ij  That   tingen  the    dis    -    tant        west        With 


^:^=^ 


i     "^    -gi  '  ^  iii ' ""  i     - — &- j 


J  V  J  . : jjj 


f=f 


^^^^i^^^ 


::^ 


aczzj?: 


crim -son,  and  gold,    and         pnrple     "While  sink-eth  th«    sun    to......         rest?  My 


i 


f 


i-^-^^ 


-f=-^-p»' 


^r^ 


^ 


J    -J,:.J^ 


F=-ts- 


^ 


f 


M 


S==i« 


i^=s 


p 


&=fc 


i 


1^5=^: 


^ 


-J^— * 


^ 


22: 


*    »<>•    ^ 


fj     '^iJ^^ 


child  there   are  seraphs       roicet        That      blend  whence  that  glo-ry    springs ;  And  the 


I 


J   i*\r 


^ 


r==H« 


22: 


^ 


s 


ss 


i>«i.B.^. 


544 


SHADOWS  OP  ANGELS'  WINGS. 


^ 


N-» 


cj-ir  r^L^r^ 


JUfrmlnadiib, 


SV 


se 


P 


-I-*'  ^ 


s 


lines     in  the  clouds  be  •  neath    it  May  be    shadows     of  An  -  gels'    wings. 


i   iVi'iii'    J 


m 


m 


J    J  J  ,,-JJJ 


^ 


f^ 


ttefrain  ad  Ub. 


ra-N- 


g 


^^ 


Lq m. 


^ 


m 


Shadows, 


shadows, 


shadows    of    An  •  gels'  wings, 


I^E 


Ni  K". 


tete 


iS 


3=t 


■TS^ 


Shadows, 


shadows    of    An  -  gels'  wingw. 


m 


J   J.  aT  r  r~qg 


lt=3t 


Shadows, 


shadows. 


shadows  of      Angels'   wings, 


^^^ 


fin-M 


»^.  ■<     1^.  J 


Shadows, 


shadows, 


"C7 


h.  Fi  F 


fcif 


shadows  of      Angels'   wings. 


^ 


r'  gs  =^ 


1    r 


«=* 


±=t2 


^ 


^Tfij-^t 


^^ 


/  ^ 


^ 


r  1  p*  1 


e 


-nj-n 


ijczjt 


See,  mother,  those  lines  are  fading^ 

I  gaze  on  the  last  faint  beam, 
And  I  know  there's  a  world  bejond  them, 

And  I  fain  of  that  world  would  dream; 
And  mother,  that  prajer  yon  taaght  me, 

It  still  to  my  memory  clings ; 
Oh  1  Father  above,  keep  o'er  me 

The  shadows  of  Angels'  wings. 

35  S^am, 


8. 

The  stin  in  the  west  is  sinking 

Again  at  the  close  of  day ; 
The  mother  is  heaVn-ward  gazing, 

But  where  is  the  child  ?  away  I 
Away,  where  the  seraphs'  voices 

Still  blend  whence  that  glory  springs ; 
Oh  I  mother  look  up,  for  o'er  thee 

Are  shadows  of  Angels'  wings. 

545 


djamt  Jn  antl  ^M  th^  ^mr. 


Words  by  J.  P.  E. 


Music  by  J.  G.  CALLCOTT. 


»■  mm  i»   » 


Allegretto  schenando 


L:s0M> 


«: 


^eI5^=^s=^ 


."J?;  a  fempo 


1.  Oh!         do     not  stand    so 

2.  Nay,       do     not     say,  "no, 

3.  You        say      I      did     not 


:^       ig: 


i^.        liiH 


long    out  -  side !  ^Vhy   need  you      be       so        shy  ?  The 

thank  you,  Jane,"  With  such     a      bash  -  ful      smile ;  You 

an  -  swer  you.    To      what  you     said    last     night;  I 


peo-ple's     ears     are 

said  when     la  -  dies 

heard  your  ques  -  tion 


--=K=--W- 


d 


-«5^ 


i 


-^-  -«B-  -^^- 

-ar-ir-»i- 


~^: 


:r==l. 


1^==]: 


i;^ 


j: 


■m-  -•■ 


:=!'- 


::z=l: 


i=M===n 


546 


-=1—^3- — =5- 


-hT'I    *^ 


•a« 


COME  IN  AND  SHUT  THE  DOOR. 


i 


o  -  pen,  John,  As      they    are     pass-ing  by ; 

whispered  "  no, "They  meant  "yes,"  all  the  while! 

in      tlie     dark, Thought  on     it         in    the  light ; 


You      can-not        tell  what 

My         fa-  ther,      too,    will 

And      now  my       lips  shall 


^^^£fe^ 


:«*: 


::*1:b: 


■^^^o-zz 


they  may  think,They've  said  strange  things  be 
wel-  come  you ;  I  told  you  that  be 
ut  -  ter   what      My  heart   has     said      be 


fore; And         if      you    wish   ,  to 

fore ; It         don't  look    well     to 

fore ; Yes,      dear  -  est,       I       but 


T 


1^- 


-.m- 


m 


\ 


3s=^-=^: 


f 


3^=^=1^: 


:«iC 


-■^--r:^- 


Z\ bS= 


-55 -^ St-  - 


pttt  levto. 


-=s: 


i^ 


:tf: 


talk  a  while,  Come  in  and  shut  the 
stand  out  here.  Come  in  and  shut  the 
wait      a    while.  Come    in     and    shut        the 


door.  Come  in, 

door.  Come  in, 

door.  Come  in, 

/?> 


:st:5=:5=qsr 


,ct  tettvpo. 


aceel. 


Zl^=^ 


::q^==^ 


:*— «^: 


:s^zir- 


zfi-_rJL-j^-> 


:*=*i«i 


rs — p — p — ^_«_^^_3_& 


t=: 


come    in,  come  in,  come  in.come  in,  come   in  and  shut       the    door. 

V  0>  


NTi^-g-gg; 


■^— 6^^— -S^- 


1^=^=^ 


-«-  -3-" 


--q_. 


•^-f-^p- 


■\ 1 H— 


^i 


3^=^: 


■^^- 


5--^ 


547 


Words  by  0.  MACEAY. 

Allegretto  Mod.  ^^'7^ 


S^M  Iftg  Jon, 

Music  by  O.PINSUTL 


PIANO. 


1  What  is  the  meaning  of    the  song,       That  rings  so  clear  and  loud, 

2  What  is  the  meaning  of    thy  thought,     O    mai-den  fair  and  young, 

3  O   hap-py  words,  at  beau-ty's  feet,       We  sing  them  ere  our  prime. 


tJ 


:i?L-tz==^i*5jS 


Thou  nightingale  amid  the  copse.  Thou  lark  above  the  cloud  ?  Thou  lark    a  -  bove  the 

There  is  such  pleasure  in  thine  eyes,  Such  music  on  thy  tongue,         Such  mu  -  sic    on    thy 
And  when  the  early  summers  pass,  And  care  conies  on  with  time,       And  care  comes  on  with 


cloud  ?  What  says  thy  song  tliou  joyons  thrush  Up  in  the  walnut  tree  ? 
tongue.  There  is  such  glo  -  ry  on  thy  face  What  can  the  meaning  be  ? 
time,  Still    be  it  ours        in  care's  despite    To  join       in  chorus  free, 


What 

There 

Still 


\     LOVE     MY     LOVE. 


says  thy  song  thou  joyous  thrush  Up    in        the  walnut  tree  ?  What  saya  thy  song  ? 
iseuchglo   -  ry    on  thy  face      what  can     the  meaning  be?  O  maiden  fair ! 
be  it  ours     in  care's  despite       To  join       in  chorus  free    The  happy  words, 


what  says  thy  song  ?, . 
O  maid-en  fair ! . . . 
the  hap  -  py  words ! . 


i 


r-p— 


r    r    "^ 


Allegretto  mod. 


/ 


=1    p 

4Lf 


l^ff 


m 


B^^ 


:l — t- 


/ 


^-h^ 


^"5=^ 


|!!=^=5 


^:§=F 


-5< 


-=)-C 


;«!•: 


"  I  love  my  love,   I   love  my  love,  be-cause  I  know  my  love  loves  me,"  I 


_^9^' 


e^^ 


i"^ 


=p 


/ 


rr—^T^' 


SN 


-=5-r 


M^=^?i=$==^ 


J_^: 


^E 


-•p — p- 


:=tr 


:P:=_: 


2).  & 


i 


±=s:^ 


love  my  love,    "  I        love  my  love,      be  -  cause    I  know  my  love  loves  me." 


-c — 


S 


'f^g    *       J 


tiis^ 


^ 


e  1^ 


^^ 


Jt 


coZ  canto 


.   /f 


a  tempo. 


^ 


Sfc 


13= 


:J=: 


549 


FROM  THE  OPERA  OF  "THE  BOHEMIAN  GIRL.' 

H.  W.  BALEE!. 


iarghetto 

Cantahile, 


r.A«o. 


hr-i    r       ^1    r      - 


i 


s^ 


=1: 


:^-*z(fcfc 


-3-j^ 


1.  The      heart    bow'd  down      by      weight  of  woe,  To 

2.  The      mind      will       in         its        worst  de-spair,  Still 


(i 


weak  -  est  hopes      will    cling ; 

pon   -  der  o'er        the       past, 


To      thought  and        im  -  pulse 
On  mo  -  ments       of        de- 


^?fe?EEE^±^ 


=|: 


-+■=1 — V- 


■=1 — r- 


isi f=- 


-w- 


L^i^z: 


a-^ 


fort    bring,   That     can,     that 
to      last.     That    were    too 


HEABT     BOWED     DOWN. 


rail. 


Izi 


:|^ 


4!!iq-5- 


3^!=S 


1/  j^ 


~^. 


can      no     com    -    -    fort  bring, 
beau-ti-ful,  too  beau-ti-ful  to  last. 


With         thoae      ex    -    cit    -    ins 
To  long       de   -   part   -    ed 


colla  parte,  pp 


^ 


W^ 


^ — P- 


<3M1- 


-•l-=l — P_ 


-0r^ 


con  espress:  di  dolore. 


fcfi 


g 


IMIi^ 


•^ 


•<* — *    ^zrv 


zi: 


?^ 


-1 — I — r- 

But  mem'-rjr      is      the 
For  mem'-ry     ifl     the 


scenes  will  blend,      O'er    pleas -ure's   path  -  way  thrown ; 
years  ex-tend,  Its       via  -  ions     with    them  flown, 


m 


Je:± 


?^ 


1 ' — 

on  -  ly  friend  That       grief       can       call 


its     own, 


That 


-^•^^      f^i 


^ 


-4» — P- 


t--^ 


grief         can  call  iU      own.  That  grief    can  call      its   own. 

cresc. 


I0m^,  ^vc^i  M^mt 


Composed  and  Arranged  for  the  JPiano-Forte, 


By  W.  T.  WBIGHTON. 


"Moderaio,     jt>.,  .— 


PIANO.' 


_1$:^_f-_ 


:=t 


EE^^Ml^^i^^^EZl^^ 


1.  The  dear  -  est  spot     of        earth    to     me  Is     Home sweet     Home!  The 

2.  I've  taught  my  heart  the       way      to     priie       My  Home sweet     Home!  I've 


l^z=^ 


-p — 1= — p: 


ttz: 


:t=-p: 


^ 


:f^=i 


,-=:^:rq=; 


er 


-Kt^-=^ 


:il=:*: 


:=S: 


--:^; 


fai     -     ry  land     I         long         to        see  Is     Home sweet   Home! 

learned  to  look     with    lov     -     er's     eyes         On    Home sweet   Home! 


:=t— p: 


m 


:p=:t=: 


552 


HOME,    SWEET    HOME. 


There,  how  oharm'd  the  sense      of    hear  -  ing  !  There,  where  love    is     so  en  -  dear  -  ing ! 

There,  where  vows    are  tru     -     ly     plight-ed!    There,  where  hearts  are  so  u    -    nit  -   ed ! 


►— ^ 


:$:    ij:  ij;  ij:     ij:    4P:    ij:    .J:     -0^^^  -•-  -»*-  V    -*-    -^    :^ 


dim  c  roll. 


a  tempo. 


All         the  world    is       not      so       cheer -ing  As    Home sweet   Home!  The 

Ail         the  world    be  -  sides    I've  slight- ed  For  Home sweet   Home!  The 


-*-   -tf-   -^-   -•-       -•-    -•^     -Jl-      -ff-      -mm-9-   ^^0  0-       -«-   -•►-   -%-  -m- 


ti^^^I^^ 


■^^m 


N-=- 


:SH3H^.3e3: 


:s:^- 


:ci: 


=M^^^-^-j-i-=i- 


■wf-:Jr 


■m-  ig: 


dearest  spot  of      earth  to     me       Is     Home sweet  Home!  The     fai  -  ry  land  I 


-^- 


:nl?=i=|^d;Lizz:^ 


a(Z  Zi&. 


:J-*: 


'^^iz^-ig— -Pyj^g 


-^^ 


■I 

long      to  see     Is     Home sweet  Home! 


:^ 


-p=t=zi= 


?lii?Ei^ 


f— t 


:^ 


:5z-*i-:iitz:ip_^ 


^ 


553 


Wit\t  ^mm^  the  '^mt. 


SOLO  AND  QUARTETTE. 

JAS.  B.  SYEES. 


Moderato. 


1.  When      on  the  mount  the  Pro  -  phet  stood, 

2.  So           we  by    faith    dis-cem  sweet  rest,. 

3.  Tho'      dark  the  waves  that  roll      be  -  tween 

4.  There    sin  and  death  can  nev  -  er     come. 


Led       by     th'Al-migh  -  ty'»  hand. 

Be  -  yond   death's  riv    -    er  strand, 

This  world    and    that       so  grand, 

Nor     Bor  -  row's  part   -   ing  hand. 


Be 
A 

Faith 
To 


i^ 


^— P- 


%=^=i 


|?J-t=|^: 


-^-^-•T" 


~I- 


^^ 


:i:^=i: 


4-P- 


-ai-^—\jg- 


t 


yond  the  Jor  -  dan's  rol  -  ling  fltwd,.... 
bright-er  realm  where  all  are  blest,..., 
o  -  ver  -  looks  tho  si  -  lent  stream,, 
des    -    o  -  late  that  bless-ed     home,.... 


He     saw  the    Prom-ised  Land,.. 

In      that  dear  Prom-iscd  ].^iid,.. 

And  sees  the     Prom-ised  Land,.. 

With -in  the     Prom-ised  Land,.. 


He 
In 
And 
With- 


|r    J      U 


* 


^- 


^=1=^4*^ 


I     ^ 


H-f=- 


^ 


S      3 


ritard. 


jz: 


:=T: 


saw., 
that., 
sees.. 
in 


the  Prom  -  ised  Land, 

dear  Prom  -  ised  Land, 

the  Prom  -  ised  Land, 

the  Prom  -  ised  Land, 


Sweet  Prom 

Sweet  Prom 

Sweet  Prom 

Sweet  Prom 


ised  Land, 

ised  Land. 

ised  Land, 

ised  Land. 


:$z=5: 


er 


^ 


* 


— p- 


=p 


t"=FS^ 


3il== 


— I- 


-=d- 


554 


By  permission  of  Sep.  Winner. 


WE    RE     NEAEIKG     TO     THE     RIVER. 


CHORUS. 


Jtz^ 


AIR. 


-M 


r;^ 


S 


S?3t 


1=21 


^^ 


We're  near-ing     to     the    riv-er      side, 


Sooa    on       the   shore  we'll     stand; 


Then, 


ALTO. 


'M^^^^^. 


wzMl 


^\d  '  9t 


zwi=ziMz 


:5an: 


:22: 


TENOR. 


^fe 


-JHf-j^-j^^-^ 


±:f=P^ 


We're  near-lng    to     the    riy-er      side, 


Soon    on       the    shore  we'll     stand;  Then, 


BASS,  ^g^ 


-t^-v-tP^ 


f?=f: 


ze.—t:=^ 


PIANO. 


isl  l:"t"l.%-^jEr 


5  Dear  Saviour,  lead  uri  safe  along 
This  wastfi  of  desert  sand, 
Till  we  itiiallsing  tin)  victor's  song, 
I  :In  the  swei»t  Pmmised  Ij«n(?:  | 
Sweet  Promised  Land. — Cuo. 


6  When  earthly  scenes  shall  disappear. 
Unite  us  with  that  band. 
Who  l)ade  farewell  to  lovod  ones  here, 
j  :To  gain  the  Promised  Land:  | 
Sweet  Promised  Land. — Cho. 

555 


Matt  for  ih  Sum  4  th^  Sidt 

"  There  is  a  tide  in  the  affairs  of  men,  which, 
Taken  at  the  flood,  leads  on  to  fortune."— SHAKESPEARE.     • 

Written  aad  Sxing  Ij  E  CLIFTON. 


Tempo  di  Vahe. 


ZffZliZiir^ 


i — r^t= 1"^  ^ 


-^-m 


'-Pi- 


■^i± 


Sp^pi 


M — I 1 — 


■w-\- 


! !— b-*-t 


:S=r 


ig-: 


=:1: 


ri: 


*::: 


— r- 

1.  In     sail  -  ing       a  -  long         the  riv  -  er       of    life, 

2.  Why  peo  -  pie       sit  fret     -     ting  their  lives    a  -  way, 

3.  Man  is     sent      in  -  to  the  world    we're     told, 


£±«t=5: 


:4-:^=iiz^: 


O  -  ver  its  wa  -  ters 
I  can't  for  a  moment  sur  - 
To  do      all    the  good  that  he 


^ii^Pi 


-wt  -^ 


-^- 


We  all  have  to   bat  -  tie  with  trouble  and  strife.     And  wait  for   the 

If    life    is      a     lot  -  ter  -  y       as         they  say.         We  can  -  not  all 

Yet  how  man  -  y   worship  the  chink  of  the  gold.      And  nev  -  er  once 


^^^i^^p 


•"^^ — i ^-1 1 — 


tt-=*i: 


Men  of    each  oth  -  er      are  prone  to      be  jealous, 
A      fol  -  ly      It     is       to      be     sad  and     de-ject-ed, 
If  you  are  poor,  from  your  friends  keep  a    distance, 

.-1- 


If 


^-*— - 


"WATT  FOR  THE  TUniT  OF  THE  TIDE. 


ip^i 


^- 


:i--±« 


— 1^  — I — , — .^ 


i&E£E^ 


Hopes  are  il  -   lu-sions  and   not  what  they  seem,        Life  and   its  pleasures,  phil  -  os  -  o-phers 
"fortune  shows  favors"  she's  fie  -  kle    be  -  side,  And  may  knock  at  your  door  some  day.  un-ex- 
Hold  up  your  head,  though  your  funds  are  but  small,       Once  let  the  world  know  you  need  its   as- 


\^K       — iSrigF — 9-9-^ — ^9^i0^^-:S-S~       Sr^    — §-9^ — ^^0^ 


T-4- 


?if — ^*-^-  -*-^-* 


-*-J^- 


-*- 


3-*-*- 


=•-*-*-  =-■ 


Chorus. 


m^^^d^^^^^^^ 


tell  us,   Go  float  ing    a  -  way  like  a  leaf  on  the  stream.  Then  try  to    be  hap-py  and 

-pected.  If  you  patient -ly  wait   for   the  turn  of  the   tide, 

-sistance,  Be  sure  then  you  nev-er   will  get    it  at      all. 

\ U 


^-gr*- — iJ-S-    — 9-9-^ ^a^^:^7-°-y- 


:-rprszr^ 


F^=^ 


:t=t: 


:lg_=4_^_^_  :-j    y  y-  :<,_ >^_^_  :_*_^_^_  iz:] 


22: 


n r — 'C~"'*""i '^ — '•"T" 

L  f _^_  -*— I 1 \-m-\ 1 —  H 


^-i 


i  __ — h^ ^_ta!._^_^ 


:ff=S: 


^■ 


t^:3i 


gay,      my   boys.     Re  -  member  the  world     is     wide. 


And  Rome  wasn't 


j2.       I!^ 

-1 tr 


tr- 


es- 


ip: 


■rr-rrr 


:S::«i 


4B-4B- 

-W-!^- 


iif=t 


1 a»—  ^-1 » — i*-r 


built  m     a     day,       my   boys,        So  wait  for  the  turn  of    the    tide 


Repeat  ff 


-^—-r-- 


--(S>- 


t 


^^n 


m 


±: 


FSK 


t=t 


ggEgEgg^ 


I ^ 


m^m^ 


:=!: 


5zi3:n::T^-.?ai 


itf— 1 — (— l-g:::::: 


"t — I- 


N^H 


557 


Sttiitltenham  (Jcrrg. 


I  ^»  I 


THEO.  MABZIALS. 


yo'  too  quick. 


I 

2. 

3- 


O  -  hoi  -  ye  -  ho,  Ho  -  ye  -  ho,  Who's  for  the  ferry  ?(The  bri  -  ars  in  bud,  the 
O  -  hoi  -  ye  -  ho.  Ho  -  ye  -  ho,  I'm  for  the  ferry," (The  bri  -  ars  in  bud,  the 
O  •  hoi  -  ye  -  ho.  Ho,  you're  too  late  for  the  ferry  (The  bri  -  ars  in  bud,     the 


-=3si: 


zr 


it 


=?»-"*==?  =^ 


-^ 


1^- 


Us 


zd: 


-^-^ 


sun  going  down,)  And  I'll  row  ye  so  quick  and  I'll  row  ye  so  steady,  And  'tis  but  a  penny  to 
sun  going  down,)  And  it's  late  as  it,  is    and  I  haven't  a  penny,  And  how  shall  I  get  me  to 
sun  going  down,)  And  he's  ruX.  rowing  quick  and  he's  not  rowing  steady,  You'd  think  'twas  a  journey  to 


^ — t^ 


u^it 


:^ 


^-^: 


<^-^ 


:*z^ 


fc^ 


I— « — ^ — c f^ — c^ : 


^i|^=^^=^ 


=1^: 


■•'■  ig: 


-9- 


dlj. 


^^^ 


:p2: 


r-^ 


W-^- 


V 


--^ S— h= 


:^^ 


:5::s: 


1/  ^ 


Liu »j:;?-*^-^=^ggt 


-m-^—^ 


-^-)^—^- 


Twick  -  en  -  ham  Town.  The      fer  -  ry -man's  slim     and  the  fer  -   ry-man'syoung  And  he's 
Twick  -  en  -  ham  Town.  She'd  a  rose        in  her    bon  -  net,  and  oh  1    she  look'd  sweet  As  the 
Twick  -  en  -  ham  Town.    "O       hoi,     and  O    ho,"   you  may  call       as  you  will      The 


TWICKENHAM  FERRY. 


S^^^^Hi^^^i^iS^.^ 


fcifcz 


jiist         a  soft  twang    in   the   turn      of  his  tongue,  and  he's  fresh     as    a      pip  -  pin  and 

lit  -    tie  pink  flow  -  er  that  grows    in  the  wheat,  With  her  cheeks  like  a      rose     and  her 

moon     is   a      ris    -    ing  on   Pe   -  tersham  Hill,  And  with  love    like  a      rose      in   the 


^d? 


ig|^^^^ 


^=1^ 


==g-4!i-U^E 


=S: 


-=»— - 


i 


*  -a- .    -^  '    -*-  -^ 

brown    as    a    ber  -  ry,     And    'tis       but  a     pen   -   ny   to  Twick  -  en  -  ham  Town, 

lips      like  a     cherry,   "And    sure  and  you're  welcome  to  Twick  -  en  -  ham  Town." 

stem      of  the  wherry,  There's  dan  -  ger  in  cross  -  ing  to  Twick  -  en  -  ham  Town, 


fe 


=3: 


=FF 


^ 

:ai^=i: 


:^zi:^=-^=t 


■wi- 


^^l 


'2± 


~'^~^~- 


-^*1S- 


— m—m-^ — *- 


?2: 


■<^ 


m 


m 


E^ 


•^? =^*- 


t) 


o- 


nJ         /•■•JL_      '*"  9  lit      -9-  -•-  -wr  -$1-  -*-      > 

^  rT**   r*^    .""t*^   .      >  r*?**   r* 

,— -P ^-^ — I— |d ' — H  -rt=— H-^ — m-r^—m — I— ^ ^ 


■|»-^ liir 


5e: 


f"^ 


m 


7T 


'^=^=^^ 


g=*— fca— =1— SI- 


i^EEKE.^. 


S- 


hoi    -   ye  -  ho,  Ho  -    ye  -  ho  Ho    -    ye  -  ho,  Ho. 


Of- 


-^^ 


«;* 


.tM K ^ 


•-J- 


^i^^ 


:?  :^f: 


'^-g2:iv:zn&-z::::z=.--: 


P        dim.         **■ 

?EEiEEEEEtE* 


-X, 


559 


SONG. 

Poetry  by  W.  0.  BEITITETT.  Music  by  J.  BAENBY. 


Allegro  con  spirito. 

J. 


^BS 


Ifc^ 


1.  The  wind  is  blowing 

2.  I  half  could  be    a 

3.  One  kiss ;  the  tide  ebbs 


j-^-- 


::•=*: 


2:^: 


±f^!?: 


fresh,  Kate,  The  boat  rocks  there  for  me ; 
landsman.  While  those  dear  eyes  I  see, 
fast,  love ;       I  must  not  lag-  gard    be 


One  kiss    and  I'm     a-  way,  Kate,     For 
To  hear    the  gale  rave  by  with-out.While 
Up  -  on    the  voyage  I'll  hope,  love,  Will 


3 


J— ss- 


■m — *^     ^     1- 


-c^ 


"SS-- 


-<SI- 


in^ — S — I !>- 


1=: 


fcS«f=^: 


?=: 


:*=:^ 


'^—^—!^' 


rall. 


Jzid: 


a  tempo. 


^ 


:^Jfi 


in 


-*- 


;i^ 


:Siizz:*=|*: 


-r— : 


J L 


two  long  years  to  sea — 
you  sat  snug  with  me — 
give    my    Kate     to      me. 


For    two  long  years       to     think       of  you.  Dream 
But       I    must  hear      the    storm    howl  by     The 
Pray     for     us,    Kate ;  such  pray'rs     as  yours  God 


--q=^==i 


2^ 


^: 


;:q^ 


h-^-« «-^ — I — I I-bI ^ — I—' 


colla 


Wi 


Til: 


-^ — ■ 


660    I 


A  THOUSAND  LEAGUES  AWAY. 


:^ 


?2: 


dfaizs;: 


:*zii^ 


^nfczs: 


^-5: 


of  you  night    and    day,- 

salt     breeze  whist  -  ling   play 
bids  the  winds     o  -  bey, 


To  long     for  you      a-  cross       the     sea, A 

Its  weird   sea-tune      among      the     shrouds,    A 
By    for-tune  heard,  your  lov  -   ing    word, — Will 


dim. 


mezza  voce. 


=rq=:t 


:ir=:«*: 


^ 


■i=it 


thou-sand  leagues    a  -  way, 

thou-sand  leagues    a  -  way, 

speed    us      far  a  -  way. 


A  thou-  sand  leagues  a  -  way,  dear  Kate,  A 
A  thou-  sand  leagues  a  -  way,  dear  Kate,  A 
A       thou-  sand  leagues  a    -    way,      my  Kate,    A 


:3c 


1    II 


i^   I    .§L  I  cres. 

:*=*:=zi^=«l_:*zz^*.-p=x 


f 


m 


22: 


:W^^—m- 


-iSTTilr^- 


thousand  leagues  a  -  way, 
thou-sand  leagues  a  -  way, 
thou-sand  leagues  a    -    way, 


While  round  the  Pole     we  toss       and     roll, —        A 

While  south    we    go,  blow  high,   blow    low, —       A 

God  will       befriend   the  .lad       you     send —       A 


Tv 


S— J^- 


/ 


^-A- 


■^-. 


-wt  -sp- 


1 — Uj — : — ^     m- 


Sia^ 


:«*: 


•»==^. 


lit 


thousand  leagues  a  -  way. 
thousand  leagues  a  -  way. 
thousand  leagues  a  -  way. 


f 


zz^ ziq J-4i*— 4i»— — L^ piXi 1 1 


^ 


561 


;:piisr,A.FOK.E.) 

Jivdcvnie.  moderato.  RALPH. 


A  maiden  fair  to  see,  The 


:i;«_i^— j^: 


ft-S- 


-*— J^ 


zn^zm 


:t^il^z^-t2i^ 


:t2= 


:t^: 


pearl  of  minstrelsy,  A  bud  of  blushing  beauty.     For  whom  proud  nobles  sigh,  And 


i 


-«- 


It-mi: 


V 


M: 


*     * 


-f^^^ 


:=i: 


J!t± 


ii 


5  F^ 


atzi^b: 


m 


s^ 


=CIJZ 


5^": 


:T==5i^ 


— *- 


-^ 


conSva. 


JsiiJ: 


:*.— i^ 


l=z^s: 


qv=S=^5=i5=r 


^N  ^ 


i=p=^=i<^ 


m 


with  each  other  vie.  To  do  her  menial's  du  -  ty. 


A     suitor  lowly  bom.  With 


S 


-5^- 


:=1: 


:=j=:: 


^tm. 


-~r- 


tS^ 


gr^a^^rS*^- 


lmm^^9% 


-*-  -*--»*"*-»-*- 


— ^^_.=). 


:i=^z^= 


-ii= 


=4- 


JS_^_]S- 


F *5<^-^|^  ^  1^" 


i^E^Eg^IEEE^ 


-;?-t»»-h^— ■■^— I- 


:==,ipEEz»zftpz:pz!?irfI 


hopeless  passion  torn.  And  poor  beyond  concealing.  Hath  dar'd  for  her  to  pine.  At 


— w 1 1 1 1 i-i i 1 f^-^S^-TTii S ■ — I 1 1 ' i i— _j    ^1 

\^       rr-^-^T'     ••If       I     I  


562 


:"»i — '- 
J — I 


A  MAIDEN  FAIR  TO  SEE. 


:*i:«_.«.«»_^._*Tr«iz:zzfi 


-^Z!^Z-^ 


-y-t»»-t>^- 


whose  exalted  shrine  A  world  of  wealth  is  kneeling.      Unlearned  he  in  aught,  Save 


t|z-^:i5iEi5^Jz^=zEp-t;j.z*-^^ 


.-.. — 2;^ 


is^m 


:^-T 


n-- 


^-4^-^-- 


:t2=2.-z^: 


i^ 


:^=#.z.?zp=^z*3^^zz-zt:. 


mfl. 


^^^=I=?eI 


:t?z^zt2z^z^:ititz 


±iz. 


tt=: 


that  which  love  hath  taught.  For  Love  hath  been  his  tutor.  Oh !  pity,  pity  me !   Our 


^ zt;g:£-gzrt^zi[Jzfz:Ezgz>q— g^:gzES--g:=gzzib^: 


1^ 


:?r:^: 


:t?zlz:tzz5: 


---=X- 


=4: 


=1: 


2^: 


:c:^: 


roS. 


iffzfff 


-V--«- 


con  ^wi.... 


-m-m- 


:=*z|~^^=^ 


itzz^: 


1^=4: 


:t2=' 


t^-tc 


ztn^zil^tfz 


captain's  daughter,  she,  and  I  that  lowly  suit  -  or !        Oh  !   pi  -  ty,  pi  -  ty  me,  our 


-<si- 


--^ 


=zi:zzz:* 


I 


#^ 


:=;: 


_/9/3 


-<S'- 


:=l: 


=1: 


irtzzi?: 


?E|g==i 


^p: 


eon  8va. 


i 


=M 


s=s=s 


!=zS!^iiz^=z 


*^-i 


cap-tain's  daughter,    she.    And    I 


=i-^ 


e^n  8va. 


=dz 


:tz^ 


tzc 


that   low  -  ly      suit 


-H- 


'-?=r. 


:i^ 


i!23iC; 


563 


i 


Words  by  P.  B.  WEATHERLY.        Music  by  STEPHEIT  ATAMS. 


1.  Of    all 

2.  The  har 
8.  The  bo' 


the  wives  as  e'er  you  know, Yeo 

bor'a  past,  the  breezes  blow, Yeo 

s'n  pipes  the  watch  below, Yeo 

-X-l K-I Krd V4 1 N-l- 

j_^-L_i — _i — . < m-»- 


ho  !  .  .  lads  1 
ho  !  .  .  lads  T 
ho!  ,     .    lads! 


5b4 


NANCY  LEE. 


^«^E^E^ 


-m-m-^ 


I'm  away  she'll  watch  for  me.  An'  whisper  low,  when  tempests  blow,  for  Jack  at  sea; 
snug  an  sweet,  for  Jack  at  sea.  An'  Naucy's  face  to  bless  the  place,  an'  welcome  me ; 
Davy  Jones,  where'er  we      be,       An'  may  yon  meet  a  mate  as  sweet  as  Nancy  Lee ; 


j;r__fr».^^ ^o — m — n rl        i     -  r* — ^ — r*-n 


665 


{m  ^n\M  Jittl^  §tttt^rr»^. 


SONG. 

By  AETHUE  SULLIVAN. 


r-^ 


4=51 


i^ 


4_J4.J-a^ 


S?: 


atfzis: 


3izi^*: 


:t=: 


I'm  called  little  But-ter-cup,  Dear  lit-tle  But-  ter  cup,  Tho'  I  could  nev-er  tell  why. 


■S 4— 


^==1 


■^1 


-*-H- 


p  ■^■ 


-c^- 


:^: 


at:^ 


-J- 


-S=? 


*-^ 


i^rili^gE^ 


ri 


g^^-^--»-j^ 


^i^g^^^^E 


__^ ^4_- 


i^zii; 


»^^^ 


iiCi^tit: 


:?=*: 


But  still  I'mcall'd  Butter-cup,  Poor  little    But-ter-cup,  Sweet  lit-tle  But- ter-  cup. 


-i^-^:+- 


=^=- 


-c?- 


feiSz  :i=^Ji^  ^z±zi^ 


z=rt-^=:g:  iff^n^ 


-y    y     - 


:s2: 


-^-^- 


?=?^^^^^fe~^E; 


I.  I'veiiiuff  and  to-  bac  -  cy.  And  ex  -  eel- lent  jac-  ky;  IVescis-sors  and 


-«^-i^-^ 


:rt=S=& 


■■m-^-fm. 


Al^     X 


h^=^=,^ 


la^zzt:— ^zi:=t=:g=^ — =E=l^£zzEz:z 


^S=.P=^, 


piE^zzszipEt 


iinqz^zzi: 


is^^^jEife.^^^^^^^ 


watches,  and  knives ; 


I've  ribbons  and  lac-  es      to     set  off  the  fac  -  es    Of 


I        i 


=t=lti=l: 


;f=ztztt=: 


=3Z=pd:p=si=pi±pi_:^_pEi: 


5CG' 


I'M  CALLED  LITTLE  BUTTERCUP. 


S: 


^=T 


=1=^: 


■.^-wzimi 


I  I    I        |:=zl~r-| — zq |-^ 


pret-  ty  young  sweethearts  and  wives. 


I've  trea  -  cle     and     tof  -   fee,     I've 


.-J:  ij:  -f- ; ■-     -*-     -9-    -w     -•-    -•-     -»- 


:p_^_p_t ^t^—jt—^it — 


-i- 


— »- 


W^^k 


ea    and  I've   cof- fee.  soft     tom-mv  and       sue-  culent    choos.  I've 


:=!= 


^^^^-=1-  :iS3!E  ^BE^ 


rail. 


-^'=:X 


■nt—^ 


:ff=it 


1— - 


:8*^^3' 


1=1: 


*i^ 


=1==?^ 


W^-9^- 


I 


:zt: 


-t«± 


-1^  -^ 

chickens  and    conies,  And  pret-ty    po   -   lo-nies,  And     ex-cel-lent  peppermint  drops. 


-^^— ^ 


-^^— ^ 


-^ 


-5^^- 


a  tempo. 


iJ=j:b'.JLg^J:^i4fp"^lF^ 


Then  buy  of  your  But-ter-cup,  Dear  little  Buttercup,  Sailors  should  never  be  shy — 

-0-  ^  -•-  -^  -)•- 


i 


SE£tfr=EEft=:=f 
t=t=titit=r-fei=fc 


a  tempo. 


-2=^ 


-2=>- 


:=t 


rtz:^ 


■0^^k-A- 


:«!=^ 


Erici: 


I — ^^^- 


-r 

zMztr- 


1 — S-^ 


^^^^^^^m 


-«-»- 


So  buy  of  your  Buttercup.Poor  little  Buttercup,Come,of  your  Buttercup  buy, 

]: 


S^Tf 


^ 


^il 


1=^- 


w- 


■^- 


T4 


cotto  voce.  ^ 


^1^^ 


eonSva' 


ai*: 


-J?-^ 


567 


M^%  S^tt^r. 


Composed  for  the  Piano-Forte* 


By  LADY  DUPPESnT. 


PIANO. 


Andante  con-  espressione. 

Iff-*!?*:  Jfbjmm:  -^mmm-  -mm  -^-  ^    -^ 


-5:Fr:q=0:p:?^^Fffliit*»:r**ti|»-|:it- 


-A^ 


,^±z 


g^^±^^gi§^^ 


iJ 


1.  Och,  girls    dear,  did       you  er    -    er      hear,     I     wrote   my     love      a       let  -  ter,     And     al- 


—\ 1- 


J=z=i: 


-^-^ 


-m — *  — 


^ 


-p , 


:=l: 


±=:?zzz=  :Siizinz=:i?=r:=Etz=i:l: 


- — ^-^-^-^^^^ ==^ 

though  he  can-not  read,         sure  I  thought 'twas  all  the  bet- tor;         For    why  should  he      be 


~^£^^EE^M^^^^§m^^E^~^^^ 


_e— Z 


5= 1— • -l-f-^ — ^  — «* 1 — h<9*  —  Iff— ^  t- 


] — p- 


^K 


m^= 


i^^m 


=1 — p- 


l-m • 1 P — I 1 

E=izz==|  :z_-_5z=zz.-z=rjzt5=:zz^— ^=::z3 


JG8 


katey's    letter. 


-K— N. 


4^ — ^--Js- 


qsiizx: 


=isr=p: 


H 


i^—^zi-^i 


-Mzizwi: 


puz-iled    with  hard  spelling      in     the    matter,  When  the  man-ing  waa  so     plain      that    I 


■^^^-=^^^2 


izz^— 


5siiz:=z.-: 


22: 


=F?2: 


:^=tz: 


-is- 


■is- 


P 


-e— =5 — f- 


i^^ 


mz^-:M 


q^==is: 


I       love  him  faith-ful  -  ly.       And  he 


r-r-r 


■« — P— F«- 


=U=t2--l 


— . — « J^ 


.p 


-p- 


knowa  it,   oh,  he  knows  it.        Without  one  word   from  me. 

.^  --I- 1 r-A ^—^ J- 


2  I  wrote  it,  and  I  folded  it,  and  put  a  seal  upon  it ; 

'Twas  a  seal  ahnost  as  big  as  the  crown  of  ray  best  bonnet ; 
For  I  would  not  have  the  Postmaster  make  his  remarks  upon  it, 
As  I  said  inside  the  letter  that  1  loved  him  faithfully. 

I  love  him  faithfully, 
And  he  knows  it,  oh,  he  knows  it !  without  one  word  from  me. 

^  My  heart  was  full,  but  when  I  wrote,  I  dared  not  put  the  half  in. 
The  neighbors  know  I  love  him,  and  they're  mighty  fond  of  chafflng; 
So  I  dared  not  write  his  name  outside,  for  fear  they  would  be  laughing 
So  I  wrote,  "  From  little  Kate  to  one  whom  she  loves  faithfully." 

I  love  him  faithfully, 
And  he  knows  it,  oh,  he  knows  it !  without  one  word  from  me. 

4  Now,  girls,  would  you  believe  it,  that  Postman,  so  consaited, 
No  answer  will  he  bring  me,  so  long  as  I  have  waited  ; 
But  maybe  there  mayn't  be  one  for  the  raison  that  I  stated, 
That  my  love  can  neither  read  nor  write,  but  he  loves  me  faithfully. 

He  loves  me  faithfully. 
And  I  know  where'er  my  love  is,  that  he  is  true  to  luc. 

5G9 


GS^ 


Wihn  ^ntmxn  3tMt^  ^n  c^dlin^. 

BALLAD. 

Words  by  J.  E.  CARPENTER,  Esq.       Music  by  J.  W.  CHEERY. 


Moderato  con  espress. 


.m-r-^^^M »^-r  •-T-"-"^^ 


mf  Dolce.  .0_       ^^]^.         ^^ ■»■      "    -o-         ^ 

T'T-T-i-^ Y»^ — I — \ — /•H — I — I — h*-i — 13 — *-• — hs rai-' — I — ' 


:t=: 


Espress. 


:p: 


:iBZiz.-i;--i::iii-i.-i:«it?Lii-Jt2=:!? 


I.  When  the   Au  -  tumn  leaves     are   fall-   ing.  And  the    flow  -  ers  have  lost their 


fdi52i3l-E^=5^=f 


-•-";-J-^*'-«-^-i-'*-<^  -p-»-    -^  p" 


^  f^vt^'"  1^^"-  r    , 


:^ii=z=S; 


:z=1==zzi: 


pnme; 


:i1id=«: 


r*-  "*^":^r*-     -•- 


And  the     bird         to     his  mate       is       call    -    ing, 


To 


^-^-aI^zz^=I^— z|--Jid ^~  ^-^ 


--j_«__j — —I — ^*-- — ' — I — , 


zia?^=4=-=-=^^ 


^t 


:^: 


-iS'- 


p- 


:^ p- 1- r 


1" — ': 


:$=?•: 


:!fc:-| 


:t2:i:i|^: 


m 


soar        to      a     bright      -     er     clime: 


i^--- 


The  heart     that     is  bow'd     by 

illl M 


-^-■ 


=1: 


'-t-^- 


570^ 


:=1=r=: 


— . — I 1 , — m. ^ 1 — ^ — I 1 1 •!— •— *i-^ 


F 


:3j=2i=iZL-=r: 


WHEN  THE  AUTUMN  LEAVES  ARE  FALLING. 


^     tempo. 


:t=: 


ii»-n — 


^lig^^ife?i|;^=^ 


sor  -  rew.  Now  sinks  in     adeep-er      gloom; For  we  know  that  the  coming 


:<^:i2|4 


^^ziJ.^-^3E^^^:ga— ^^^^5izz|:q"| 


5lt~ilS-  fi^s^sJ— ^^^r  7^-5- 


tempo. 


S)- 


t^: 


^^^^p=l^-^ 


— « s* 


:^=^: 


.t2±^z=^-^r.ti:— tJL--^zE' 


zzzn-zzz 


mor   -  row, 


Must  with  -   er  some  lin    -    ger  -  ing  bloom, 


■r:;}-  -•- ^•-2=^-  -•-  __j^  -Tz^  -^ 


I tZ] ,_^ 1 •— , 


For    we 


H K 


:^= 


--zsi: 


:i5i= 


r 


espress. 


slentando. 


know  that  the  coming       mor  -  row.       Must  with  -  er  some  lin  -gering  bloom 


■:$--^-- 


^^^-^^^-^H-m 


5E:=S=)= 


—-^-■Sz. 


"-^^^^ 


f        colla 


«L  I 


WeI 


-t ^— -r '^^'9^t9^i^^^-s^^^ 

f      .^      ^:=^=-  dim.  ritard.         «      I    ^f -^ 


'^^igfe^^g 


2.  When  the  shadows  of  evening  lengthen, 

And  we  muse  o'er  each  present  grief; 

The  hopes  tliat  we  strive  to  strengthen, 

We  feel,  like  our  joys,  are  brief: 
And  the  leaves  as  they  fall  arounr"  us- 

Remind  us  how  short  our  span  ; 
That  the  flowers  which  the  Springtime  found  ns, 
But  fade  like  the  hopes  of  man, 

571 


English  Words  lay  J.  M.  A. 


FBANZ  ABT.^ 


Andantino. 


-*-^- 


■:T- 


1.  I      fain         a  tender  word  would  tell     thcc     Yet 

2.  I      fain     would  sing  in  plaintive  meas-ure,       A 

3.  I      fain      would  write  a  lov^ig  let    -    ter,     That 


eon  hggereaza.  /^    \         pp 

L-^ 1 


:=S=^^=S= 


i^i=!*=¥ 


— I IS — ?s — 1%-«— 


MZ-^z 


-^- 


4*: 


e!Egi 


now  myself  scarce  can   ex -press, 

song  that  to  thy  heart  should  go, 

might  to  thee  my  heart    un  -  fold. 


And   if  its  import  thou  shouldst 

But  when  I  seek  the  tune  -  ful 

But     e    -     -    ven  here  I  fare     no 


:f--4— ^^-tf- 


:Jti»: 


:p=p: 


p^^^ 


PP 


pocoril. 


mf 


:?2: 


li^-- 


& 


-J^iH^ziB. 


-I ^-.— I 1»»— k— t^ — "^ — I 

ask  me,  My      an    -    •    swer  should  be  on  -  ly  this ; 

treas      -      ure,  A      voice  with -in    me    speaketh  so; 

bet     -     -     ter,  For      all  my  thoughts  in  this    are  told; 


My 
My 

My 


^^s^^^^TrEJ^^Ig^i^^pB 


672 


MY    LOVE    FOR    THEE. 


i 


E-^ 


-al— P^ 


rt- 


^^ 


:^ 


i^ 


:c^: 


?2: 


ijrn:: 


t — t- 


^ 


love  for    thee  bums     ar    -      dent  -  ly.       For     thee  a   -    lone  I 


■I 


^   ^     -tti^     -^5-     =^*^3^  '-iy     ■ 


/ 


/^ 


^5 


:r22zi 


'c- 


■s*-^ 


/ 


P 


nrp3: 


:tiziz==t: 


:^=:iL:iziip: 


•^— V- 


:iit=:^ 


:ti=tz 


±: 


Si^: 


live, 


My        love  for    thee        bums        ar     -     dent  -  ly,  For 


:^; 


ls<  and  2d  Verses. 


:t= 


zzufz^s^: 


Ed 


22: 


thee  a     -    lone  I  live. 


=f 


g 


^^ig 


0-^—m 


:;i=S=^S?z=ih?3^N^4=N=?-|B=^ 


V — r 


i]iapin0  ni  th^  (iarden  €att 


Words  by  J.  IiOEEB. 


Hv^  iy  S.  W.  ITKW. 


W-4: 


fat:^^^      .^     5 


1  Who's  that    tap-ping  at  the       gar  -  den  gate  ? 

2  Oh,     you        sly      lit  -  tie  "  Fox,"  you  know ! 


^ 


* 


m 

-•!— t 


S^^feE^ 


^li 


^!^ 


Ly: 


Tap,  tap,   tap-ping  at   the  gar  -  den   gate  ?       Ev'  -  ry  night  I  have  heard  of  late, 
Fid  -  get  -  ting  a  -  bout  un  -  til    you   go,     Dropp'd  the  sugar  spoon,  Why,  there  it  lies, 


i=^ 


3?=J?:p:^^:!» 


■j^—^ — m=^ 


-) — I — I — I — I- 


:^— jMrJd^ 


St ^ 


^ 


:tz=£ 


Some 
Bless 


■  bo-dy   tap-ping  at  the  gar  -  den  gate.   What,  you  sly    lit- tie  pusa,  don't  know? 
the  girl,      where  are    your  eyes  ?  Were     I    a  -  ble   to  leave  my  chair, 


iS.1: 


^5=^ 


.-F^=J: 


V*  • 


J 


g^^^g^^!^^ 


ifei* 


674' 


TAPPING  AT  THE  GARDEN  GATE. 


te»: 


^^ 


'— k-"g-i^ 


I^ZltL 


tJ 


Why  do  you  blush  and  fal-ter      so?    What  are  you  looking  for  un  -  der  the  chair?  The 
Soon  would  I  find  out    who  was  there ;  Don't  tell  me       you  think  it's  the  cat, 


^^^^^^ 


IS  « '■""■ 


p  tempo. 


^^^ 


=15^ 


3t=i: 


^=ls=g: 


^±J 


g^ 


^==^ 


^_: 


tap,  tap,  tapping  comes  not  from  there ;  Ev'   -  ry  night  a -bout  half-past  eight,  There's 
Cats  don't  tap,         tap,   tap,  like  that,   Cats  don't  know  when  it's  half-past  eight,  And 


mil. 


-^f=» 


p  tempo. 


*         5t 


5P^ 


-^ 


I^iigt 


r 


3? 


U-' 


^^^S^^ 


/ 


U— P=g=g^g 


M 


tap,      tap,  tapping  at  the    gar-den   gate,    Ev*  -  ry  night  about  half-past  eight.  There's 
come  tap,  tapping   at    the  gar-den   gate,   Cats  don't  know  when  it's  half-past  eight.  And 


-i-^-^- 


tJ 


H^: 


:j^=m-- 


Ij.-*^^- 


g^ 


/ 


^m 


^:^- 


■m=m=^: 


5=^=^ 


_L_P K 


=^=^ 


PS 


tap,  tap,  tap-ping  at  the      gar  -  den  gate. 
come  tap,  tap-ping  at  the       gar  -  den  gate. 


cres. 


te^^i^^i^iij. 


g=£^ 


3s 

575 


Jittle  (igpg  J  ant 


Words  by  EDWARD  FIT2BALL.  Music  by  C.  W.  GLOVEE. 


Allegretto.    y~.        . 

-J^ f- p-JK — ,19 ^ I , CI. — p 


:^: 


^^^^E^=^£-ra^gi 


-*«--^  -^ 


Piano. 


/ 


A.  'nn  M. 


'tKBBlHIDttiD^r^~~  "^^ ^ b^~^' 


SEg^E^ 


-tz: 


^-^£S=^: 


-r 


:-ES=£ 


:=1tF=S 


:?«: 


>-  k    "R" 


:*=i: 


I'm       a  mer  -  ry      Gip  -  sy       Maid,     From    my    tent     in       yon  -  dch      glade. 


f        ^      f  ?^      f     f 


:^=q: 


■=x. 


-S1-- 


^ 


-^- 


==^^1 


r 


^3^=^-^^^^=£ 


"     a 


LITTLE  GIPSY  JANE. 


— ^ — t? — ^~r' 


I've    com  -  fort  bland,  Of    sweethearts  who  com  -  plain, 


You've 


5^ — -2~1~1       "^5^ — ^ — ^^ ^ 

^■^  -^-    -9-    -*0-  ^^  ^^  Ht-    -m- 


iiig=^^i^ii 


Tra,    la,      la,      la,   la,  la,  la,  la,  la,  Tra,    la,  la,  la,      la,     la,  la,  la,  la,  la,      la. 


^^l==g^^i^l=|Eii^^ 


:ta=U; 


Tra,    la,       la. 


i 


f 


H — --! — 


la,      la,  la,  la,  la,  la, 

I 


Tra,     la,  la,  la,      la,  la,      la,   la,  la,  la,  la, 


-=^ 


:^: 


-<rt '-W- 


2.  With  the  lark,  I  greet  the  morn, 
When  tlie  dew  is  an  the  rye ; 
With  the  milk-inaid,  'ueath  tlie  tlioni, 

Stealthily  am  I; 
For  her,  I've  tales  of  house  and  land. 

And  husbands  rich  to  gain  ; 
She  has  but  just  to  cross  the  hand 
Of  Little  Gipsy  Jane. 
Tra  la  la  la,  &C. 


577 


i^auttfttl  ^dL 


Composed  and     rranged  for  the  Fiano-FoirUt 


By  R,  COOTE, 


PIANO. 


/ 


'ui^*     5>^ 


^p=^ 


^ 


:ff:»E 


ifcztc 


t3K 


rfug: 


h    K    K 


atii:^ 


:^=s: 


1.  Don't  talk  to  me     of    pretty  maids,  Of  handsome  Indies,  don't !      I'll 

2.  She's  but   a   lit  -  tie     one  indeed,  With  neat  and  ti  -  ny    feet,         And 

3.  We  sometimes  think  in  all  the  world  There's  none  so  fair  o?  she —    So 


nev-er      lig  -  ten    to       a       word,    I     won't,  no     that  I     won't!     There's  not     a      beau-ty 
wanders  round  the  live-long  day     With  songs  di  -  rine  -  ly  sweet;  She  dan-ces     like      a 

I(ive-ly     as     our    dir-ling  Nell — As     sweet  as     she    can  be;  But  ev' -  ry     moth  -  er 


tr 


:^:^: 


q. 


JS_^ ^ 


-wt-mt 


W^^: 


S 


f 


p 


:=fc:=: 


-wi- 
578 


^ 


t 


BEAUTIFUL     NELL. 


^ 


5=B 


S — k^ 


«j 


^^^■ 


in     the     land    To  match  my     pret  -  ty  Belle :        I'll  tell     you  all        a  -  bout     her     now,     My 
fai  -  ry     child    Up  -  oa     the     gras  -  sy  lawn,       And  slum-bers  like     an   an    -    gel    babe    from 
seems  to  think,  And  so      its      ve    -  ry  well,         Her  lit   -   tie  dar-liog's  just     as     sweet     As 


ores. 


^ 


g 


-SI— fs- 


z — :: 


^fcizr: 


Tempo  di  Yalsb. 


-m-^-m- 


"iT-y^T' 


dar  -  ling  lit-tle     Nell, 
sun  -  set   till  the   dawn, 
we        do   pretty     Nell. 


5 


i'"' 


4*: 


-S-^^ 


:S=]==3 


-* — m  ^G> 


Beau  -  ti  -  ful     child         with  beau  -  ti  -  ful   eyes, 


m 


^ 


h  1     N- 


Sih: 


-3»    ^»     -gl-|g! 


:jj.    -^ 


-arref- 


r-r 


*l    *: 


A 


g^^=^=^: 


;& 


M: 


■^ 


-pi — V- 


4 p!— 4=- 


:ii== 


^=r;^ 


^ 


3t3S. 


1J*: 


w — w 


Bright  as         the  mom-ing        nnd  blue     as      the   skies ; 


Beau  -  ti  -   ful     teeth         and 


I       I-  -p        I       I-  r      J 


^^3 


feii^    -r^^    ^~-r 


-*i.-*i 


p 


i 


f^^ 


^ 


r 


r 


raZZ. 


g 


:ii)=iiJ: 


:^ 


dim  -  pies     as     well, 


:g-=^ 


=^- 


^tz^ 


-«-— - 


ci^cz: 


Beau-ti  -   ful,      beau  -  ti    -    ful,     beau  -  ti     -     ful    Nell. 


1 


1?^ 


3,i^S=t=^^=^EE=^pi^^ 


raW.  — = 


~t 


^i»! P P- 


^F^=i= 


•70     I 


579 


Wit  ^at  bii  tk  Sitier. 


clahieel. 


?IANO. 


-<S- 


-^»— f»- 


:ff±S: 


3?=tzq 


^ 


-ti^^ 


"V* — ^ 


We    sat        by   the  river,  you  and    I, 
'Tifl  years    since  we  pnrted,  you  and  I, 


In  that 
In  that 


=S=P=r 


-^_ 


sweet  summer  time  long  a-go. 
sweet  summer  time  long  a-go. 


So  smoothly  the  water  glided  by,  Making 

And  I  smile  as  I  pass  the  river  by,  And  I 


SS^ 


w=m 


''^^. 


"^-^-^-^ 


1=^^ 


music  in  its  tran-quil       flow, 
gaze  into  the  shadow  d^ths  below, 


We     threw  two  leaflets,  you  and  I,  To  the 

I        look  on  the  grass  and  bending  reeds.      And  I 


580 


WS    SAT     BY     THS     BIYES. 


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^  ^ 


riv-er    as    it  wan  -  der'd       on, 
list-en  to  the  sooth  -  ing      song, 


And        one       was      rent  and  left  to 
And  I      en    -    vy  the  calm  anH  happy 


ann  nappj 


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ife^=;;z: 


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And  the  oth-er  tioat-ed  forward  all  a  -  lone. 
Of   the  riv-er    as  it  sings  and  flows  along. 


And 
For 


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Oh  I  we  were  sadden'd,  you  and  I,  For  we  felt  th  at  our  youth's  golden  dream,         M  ight 

Oh !  how  its  sons:  brings  back  to  me,  The  shadeof  our  youth's  golden  dream,  In  the 


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m: 


fade    and  our  lives  be  sever'd  soon, 
days     ere  we  parted,  you  and  I, 


gL-^ 


As  the  two  leaves  were  parted  in  the  stream. 
As  the  two  leaves  were  parted  in  the  stream. 


'gohm  '§.Ml 


?IANO. , 


P 


Andante. 


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1.  AVhat's  this     dull     town         t«      me?        Ro     -     bin's     not  near 


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Where's    all        the  joy     and  mirth      JIade      life         a  Heav'n  on    earth ; 


-a^        -W        n^  -mt    -wr    -^r         -^-         -^         -ft'-  ^ 


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ROBTN    ADATR. 


rail 


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Where's   all         the  joy   and  mirth,       Oh,       they're     all         fled  with    thee, 


1 


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Bi 


Rob 


A 


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dair, 


22; 


ob     -     ia 


A  -  dair. 


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2  What  made  th'  assembly  shine? 

Robin  Adair. 
What  made  the  ball  so  fine? 

Robin  Adair. 
What  when  the  play  was  o'er, 
What  made  my  heart  so  sore, 
What  when  the  play  was  o'er? 
Oh,  it  was  parting  with 

Rubin  Adair. 


3  But  now  thon'rt  far  from  me, 

Robin  Adair. 

But  now  I  never  see 

Robin  Adair. 

Yet  him  I  loved  so  well, 

Still  in  my  heart  shall  dwell, 

Yet  him  I  loved  so  well. 

Oh,  I  can  ne'er  forget 

Robin  Adair. 

5o<J 


Sh  S^Yhmh  %tmllt 


Composed  bjr  TH.  MACHAELIS. 

Moderaio.     Tempo  di  Mairdla. 


Arranged  by  D.  EBUG. 


To  CODA. 


PP 


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( 


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.it.    .,«-    -^.       .«. 


-■«^=l=S==t:^; 


684 


THE  TURKISH   REVEILLE. 


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:«pflij 


1/      > 


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-iZtfiffKffies: 


di:#«:pt  je«:  1221  — — 1 


uTia  corda  sempre. 


-«* 85"- 


— I 1 1-1 -H 1 l-i 1 1 1 ^-| 1 1 j 1-1 ! 1-1 1 1 Ht- 

« — l—m-\ — 1-«— J— « 1 ^ — - — l—m~\ — '— <w — I— «-| — -cp • 1— ^ — !-ai(-  - 

:tf  iz:lz*it=tiB=1z*i  :=j— -g |zgzbzl=g — I~g=r1-g^ — rmz  ztf  zzjgi : 

J -^ — : — «-_j_: _, — i — L_j 1 _, — i — L,_, — i — __j — J — L  -j.' — __ — : — L^ — t — ^  T      I. 


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nee;  -•■ 


585 


unt  Sovt, 


Br  JOHN  EESCH. 


Allegretto. 


[i 


I )« — 1« — ^ 1__ B) i« =1 — I 1 1 1 1 ^ — I 1 1 — 


:t::=t 


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intz: 


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/ 


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,-T- M M     .        •g--jg--tgijg: , n ^- — 1-*^ 


586 


SECRET  LOVE. 


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Its: 


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p  ____       _     


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£^=Pf^z=^  3=S=^^i^-  ^gg-g-J*:^  :^g=f?il»:ffl*: : 

1  III 1 — I — I  ^^.^ — 1-« ■: ^ 1 1 ►— I , — L. 


J 1- 


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-n — s^i — &- 


-■»-fra-*-&^-i 


:t=p: 


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itz 


Fam. 


587 


gmuil  iwlk. 


A.  PAELOW. 


AUeffretto. 


Piano. 


# 


r-rr^ 


tiK <?    *     wl:—i Lq! : <K ! I b^ '-taBtaMaari H 1 i ' '-I — I — - — i        '■■ 


\  <S — I 1 ^—i — >— ^ ^s=zf- — ^ — i-ft— — I — 1 — ^ 1— t — ^ 1 — I — ^— r 


CXJ     CiJ     £i2 


ANVIL  POLITA. 


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D.  a# 


589 


STBEABBOa. 


TEMPO  DI  MAZURKA. 


8TBE^BB09. 


/ 


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^-n=p=M^,^^r^,.,^^ 


ii 


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m 


— I — t— 


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t^=:^ 


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/  * 


fcp^-&i^- 


i^    / 


^-^-HZJ^^^E^^S 


iig 


590 


LITTLE  FAIRY  MAZURKA. 


II      2 


/ 


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1 \— [:::a: [^ 1_ — f_ 1    r^ »-ta — i- u ^c 


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z=^^^^ 


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w— =1-1- 


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7 


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i 


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=:t=t:-pSzJlzz:ri 


:t2=?:t2i^*: 


5yi 


3i  (^t^ilt — ^i:Ii0tt!8rh. 


By  CHAS.  D.  EENTSEN. 


Moderato. 


^^  ^  '9-f»-^;-& 


J^l. 


-•T'Vtt^Mi- 


PIANO. 


P 


litZI^ 


ffi: 


—I F — I 1 1— 


^^L^^^m-^-i, 


1=T=I 


^ 


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Repeat  Sva. 


jBIHiKZZMl 


'-^ 


S 


^-jty^: 


-*-^ — r*— f- 


-'^^awKtd 


mf 


^"^Tf^g)ll 


f:^-f^ 


g=gp 


"^     iS 


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1^=:^ 


:P=P: 


=g 


1 1- 


:g--r-<r- 


692 


T"  -  j- 

By  permission  of  Sep.  Winner. 


L    ETOILE     SCHOTTISCn. 


8va. 


S>^^r-t-t 


TRIO. 
Sva loco.    Dehcato. 


m-~. — \-  ±—^\ l:-  -  - — f 


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1 


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ii3=«: 


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^: — I — 


Ji: 


iz=t:=ti: 


:]=: 


-h — 


38 


593 


tmilfvil  §Itt4   lattttk  Maltz. 


Arranged  lay  SEP.  WINNEE. 


Tewijjo  <^t  valse. 


:fif« 


T=l 


^^ 


srxjig 


^ 


tz 


:^ 


4!^: 


ilARO. 


S=«=ld 


ife 


iffire 


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22 


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Jac ^ 


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HE^m^E^Em^^a 


ay-n-l-^ 


-1»--r^ 


?2: 


1-^— a^^-  ^^ 


lif*: 


^ 


dKnla: 


w-i .•- 


^-1    I  ir  I    i  IP  ^^p=g^.^^^^ 


j^---} — ^■-•P 


:|--r-: 


:n^ 


:;it 


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Fine. 


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:e- > 


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1 \: 


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I  -I  r     I     h- 


-) — I- 


i 


594 


BEAUTIFUL     BLUS      DANUBE      WALTZ. 


m 


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F    m 


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i — -F 


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TRIO. 


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P=p: 


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doUe. 


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'     1     1     i 

r  1     -      r 

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) 

III'' 

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— 1 — 

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P  1      1        •*  1      '       -■U— L-JHj 1_ 

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CHAS.  LECOCO. 


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a'es. 


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fe^E^^Eig^ 


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596 


■Jrj).S.^alFim, 


OIROFLE     OTROPLA. 


Introduction. 


Sl^ 


f==2^ 


/ 


H  ff    Ivi: 


1^=^ 


«>^- 


No.2 


/ 


-P    -S(— 


^:= 


1^ 


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4?=;^ 


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»n 


er 


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22: 


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crcs. 


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1=^ 


■  ^ m'-  ?2^!^ : 


/ 


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2:r-y 


nf 

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L  I 


^^M±^^ttB 


D.  8,  :Si  al  Fine, 
597 


mum  Malt2. 


PEANS  VON  SUPPE. 


S.  ALBEBTL 


Valse. 


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BOCCACCIO. 


MiAKCH. 


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»— I — I — I — 1-» — t — I — I — 


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1 — »' 


22: 


ffi 


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^bgzJ-g_|_J4;g=^Ni[:; 


®^  piittttet. 


MOZAET. 


<    «—     n    » 


PIANO- 


Moderato. 


vffF- 4-^ — t""l    I    {    M^^  ^ ^     — y-«-*-y-p — 9-9-*'-» —4. 


e3E5 


gE5Eg?=^^= 


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« «— •(— •— •H-l--^— lO-P^ P2-  -I ^-^ —J— 


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i-^— ^- 


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litat 


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lU-UAC 


CONTENTS  OF  MUSIC. 


Page. 

Comin'  Thro'  the  Rye 482 

Her  Bright  Smile  Haunts  Me  Still 484 

A  Warrior  Bold 486 

Three  Fishers  Went  Sailing 4S8 

Sally  in  Our  Alley 490 

WTiere  Are  the  Friends  of  My  Youth  ? 492 

The  Old  Sexton 494 

Scenes  That  Are  Brightest 496 

Flee  as  a  Bird 498 

Paddle  Your  Own  Canoe 500 

I  Cannot  Sing  the  Old  Songs 502 

Blissful  Dreams  Come  Stealing  O'er  Me 504 

The  Torpedo  and  the  Whale 506 

Rest  for  the  Weary,  Rest 508 

No,  Sir ! 510 

Then  You'll  Remember  Me 512 

Pulling  Hard  Against  the  Stream 514 

In  the  Gloaming , 516 

Over  the  Garden  Wall 518 

When  the  Swallows  Homeward  Fly 520 

"Come  Back  to  Erin" 522 

Take  Back  the  Heart  Thou  Gavest 524 

The  Letter  in  the  Candle 526 

There  are  Friends  that  we  Never  Forget 528 

''Good  Bye,  Sweetheart,  Good  Bye" 530 

The  Dear  Little  Shamrock 532 

Too  Late  to  Marry 534 

Put  Your  Shoulder  to  the  Wheel,  or  "A  Motto 

for  every  Man" 536 

A  Vixen  for  a  Wife ^ 538 

Far  Away 540 

Waste  not,  Want  not,  or  "  You  Never  miss  the 

water  Till  the  Well  runs  Dry" 542 


Page. 

Shadows  of  Angels'  Wings 544 

Come  in  and  Shut  the  Door 546 

I  Love  My  Love 54S 

Heart  Bowed  Down 550 

Home,  Sweet  Home 552 

We're  Nearing  the  River 554 

Wait  for  the  Turn  of  the  Tide 556 

Twickenham  Ferry 558 

A  Thousand  Leagues  Away 560 

A  Maiden  Fair  to  See 567 

Nancy  Lee 564 

I'm  Called  Little  Buttercup 566 

Katey's  Letter .* 568 

When  the  Autumn  Leaves  are  Falling 570 

My  Love  for  Thee 572 

Tapping  at  the  Garden  Gate 574 

Little  Gypsy  Jane 576 

Beautiful  Nell 573 

We  Sat  by  the  River 580 

Robin  Adair ,.  582 

The  Turkish  Reveille 584 

Secret  Love 586 

Anvil  Polka 588 

Little  Fairy  Mazurka 590 

L'Etoile 592 

Beautiful  Blue  Danube  Waltz 594 

Girofle  Girofla 596 

Boccaccio 598 

The  Minuet 600 

Fatinitza  March 602 

Grafulla's  Favorite  Waltz 604 

Kutschke  Polka 606 


(608) 


BIOGRAPHIES   OF   EMINENT 

AUTHORS 

WHOSE  PRODUCTIONS  ENRICH  THESE  PAGES. 


Adams,  Charles  Follen. — Known  as  a  humorous 
writer,  particularly  of  poems  in  German  dialect.  Mr. 
Adams  is  a  native  of  Dorchester,  Massachusetts,  where 
he  was  born  April  2Tst,  1842.  He  served  in  the  civil 
war,  and  began  his  literary  pursuits  in  1870. 

Adams,  John  Quincy. — The  sixth  President  of  the 
United  States,  was  the  son  of  John  AdamS;  the  second 
President,  and  was  born  in  Massachusetts  in  1767. 
He  was  elected  to  the  presidency  in  1825.  At  the  ex- 
piration of  his  term  of  office  he  retired  to  Quincy,  Mas- 
sachusetts, but  was  elected  representative  to  Congress 
in  1830.  His  first  literary  productions  were  letters 
from  abroad,  and  were  published  in  the  Portfolio,  a 
Philadelphia  Journal.     Died  in  1848. 

Aldrich,  Thomas  Bailey.— Mr.  Aldrich  holds  high 
rank  among  American  authors,  having  been  a  fre- 
quent and  popular  contributor  to  leading  periodicals. 
He  was  born  November  nth,  1836,  at  Portsmouth, 
New  Hampshire.  During  the  three  years  of  his  con- 
nection with  the  mercantile  house  of  his  uncle  in  New 
York  he  began  his  literary  career.  His  writings  com- 
prise both  prose  and  poetry. 

Alexander,  Cecil  Frances. — Wife  of  William  Alex- 
ander, bishop  of  Derry,  Ireland.  She  was  bom  near 
Strathbane  in  1823,  and  distinguished  herself  by  her 
poems,  many  of  which  are  of  a  religious  character, 

Alford,  Henry,  D.  D. — Born  in  London,  1810;  died 
in  1871.  In  addition  to  his  ecclesiastical  position  as 
Dean  of  Canterbury,  he  was  a  Biblical  scholar  of  wide 
repute.  His  Greek  Testament,  completed  in  1861,  is 
a  standard  work.  His  poems  are  marked  by  schol- 
arly refinement,  and  an  earnest  Christian  t-pirit. 

Alger,  Hora'.io. — A  native  of  North  Chelsea,  Mas- 
sachusetts, where  he  was  born  on  January  13th,  1834. 
He  graduated  at  Harvard  College  in  1851,  and  became 
pcistor  of  a  Unitarian  congregation  in  1864.  Mr.  Alger 
is  the  author  of  several  volumes  of  poems,  and  has 
also  been  a  frequent  contributor  to  periodical  literature. 

Allen,  Elizabeth  Akers. — Bom  in  Maine,  1832.  Her 
maiden  name  was  Elizabeth  Chase,  and  her  first  hus- 
band was  Paul  Akers,  the  sculptor.  Her  most  famous 
production  is  "Rock  Me  to  Sleep,  Mother." 

AUmgham,  William. — Bom  at  Ballyshannon,   Ire- 
land, 1828.     Published  poems  in  1850,  again  in  1854, 
and  received  an  author's  pension  in  1864. 
39 


AUston,  Washington. — Distinguished  as  an  artist 
and  author.  He  was  born  at  Georgetown,  South 
Carolina,  1779,  resided  at  Cambridge,  Massachusetts, 
during  the  latter  part  of  his  life,  and  died  in  1843. 

Ames,  Fisher,  L.L.D. — A  distinguished  orator  and 
statesman  during  the  American  Revolution  and  the 
period  immediately  preceding.  His  brilliant  eulogy 
on  Washington  was  pronounced  in  1799.  Mr.  Amts 
was  born  in  the  ancient  town  of  Dedham,  Massachu- 
setts, April  9,  1758,  and  died  on  the  4th  of  July,  1808, 
four  years  after  he  hid  declined,  on  account  of  failing 
health,  the  presidency  of  Harvard  College, 

Andersen,  Hans  Christian. — A  gifted  writer,  born 
in  Denmark,  1805.  Having  failed  in  his  early  efforts 
as  actor  and  singer,  he  was  placed  at  an  advanced 
school  through  royal  favor,  and  soon  developed  th  se 
remarkable  gifts  which  have  made  his  name  known 
throughout  the  world,  especially  among  the  children 
for  whom  his  fairy  tales  have  a  singular  charm.  On 
his  seventieth  birthday  he  was  presented  with  a  book 
containing  one  of  his  tales  in  fifteen  languages.  Died 
in  1875. 

Arnold,  Matthew. — A  well-known  English  poet  anc 
essayist,  the  eldest  son  of  the  late  Doctor  Arnold,  a 
Rugby.  He  was  born  in  1822,  was  appointed  Inspec- 
tor of  Schools  in  1851,  and  elected  Professor  of  Poetry 
at  Oxford  in  1857.  As  a  thinker  and  author  his  rank 
is  high. 

Aytoun,  William  Edmundstoune. — Was  bora  in 
E '^inburg,  Scotland,  in  1813.  His  contributions  to 
Blackwood's  Magazine  gained  a  wide  celebrity.  Died 
in  1865. 

Bailey,  Philip  James. — Author  of  "Festus,"  "The 
Angel  World,"  and  other  poems,  was  born  in  England 
1816.  "  Festus"  was  published  when  he  was  twenty- 
three  years  old,  and  was  received  with  unusual  favor. 

Bayly,  Thomas  Haynes. — Composer  of  popular 
songs  ;  bom  in  England,  1799  ;  died,  1839. 

Barbauld,  Anna  Letitia. — A  distinguished  English 
authoress,  born  in  Leicestershire,  1743.  She  was  the 
first  to  publish  works  especially  adapted  to  chikiren. 
Died  in  1845. 

Barham,  Richard  Harris. — Wrote  under  the  nom  de 
plume  of  Thomas  Ingoldsby,  Esq.,  and  by  his  fine 
humorous  productions  gained  a  wide  circle  cf  readers. 
Born  in  England  1788;  and  died  1845. 

(609) 


610 


BIOGRAPHIES  OF  AUTHORS. 


Barton,  Bernard. — A  member  of  the  Society  of 
Friends,  and  author  of  "  Bruce  and  the  Spider,"  and 
other  poems,  was  born  in  London,  1784,  and  died  in 
1849. 

Beecher,  Henry  Ward.— The  foremost  pulpit  ora- 
tor of  America,  and  an  author  of  remarkable  versa- 
tility. A  number  of  volumes  have  been  issued,  com- 
prising Mr.  Beecher's  Sermons,  Lectures  to  Young 
Men,  Star  Papers,  one  work  c-f  fiction,  the  Life  of 
Christ,  and  Miscellanies.  He  was  born  in  Litchfield, 
Connecticut,  1813,  graduated  to  Amherst  College  in 
1834,  became  pastor  of  Plymouth  Church,  Brooklyn,  in 
1847,  and  died  in  1887. 

Beddoes,  Thomas  Lovell. — In  his  nineteenth  year 
published  "The  Bride's  Tragedy,"  which  attracted 
wide  attention.  Bom  in  Clifton,  England,  1803 ;  stu- 
died medicine  in  Germany,  and  died  1849. 

Beers,  Ethelin  Eliot.— Author  of  the  well-known 
lyric,  "All  Quiet  Along  the  Potomac,'  and  other 
popular  pieces,  was  bom  in  New  York  in  1827,  and 
died  in  1S79. 

Benjamin,  Park. — Known  as  a  contributor  to  several 
periodicals,  and  a  poet  of  considerable  dis  inction. 
Born  in  1809,  in  British  Guiana,  where  his  father  was 
engaged  for  a  number  of  years  in  mercantile  pursuits. 

Bennett,  William  Cox.— Born  at  Greenwich,  Eng- 
land, 1820.  His  poetry  is  characterized  by  deep  feel- 
ing, and  relates  particularly  to  domestic  life. 

Blaine,  James  Gillespie.— Was  born  in  Pennsyl- 
vania 1830,  graduated  at  Washington  and  Jefferson 
College,  1847  ;  was  representative  in  Congress  from 
Maine  1863-1875,  filling  the  office  of  Speaker  of  the 
House  from  1869.  Elected  to  the  United  States  Sen- 
ate 1876;  became  Secretary  of  Slate  in  President  Gar- 
field's cabinet  ife8i,  and  in  1884  was  defeated  as  the 
candidate  for  the  presidency  on  the  Republican  ticket. 
Mr.  Blaine's  most  celebrated  oration  is  that  on  Presi 
dent  Garfield. 

Blair,  Robert.— Wrote  "The  Grave,"  and  other  re- 
ligious poems.  Born  at  Edinburgii,  Scotland,  in  1699, 
■died  in  1746. 

Blake,  William. — A  celebrated  engraver  and  poet, 
whose  unique  works  have  been  fully  appreciated  only 
since  his  death,  was  born  in  London  1757,  and  after  a 
•hard  struggle  with  poverty  died  in  182S. 

Bloomfield,  Robert. — This  poetical  genius,  an  un- 
lettered shoemaker,  who  achieved  great  fame,  was 
born  in  Suffolk,  England,  1766.  While  working  at 
his  trade,  he  composed  a  poem  of  1600  lines,  complet- 
ing it  before  a  word  was  written.  It  created  a  great 
sensation  when  published,  and  was  translated  into 
several  languages.     Bloomfield  died  insane  in  1823. 

Boker,  George  Henry.— The  author  of  the  "  Lesson 
of  Life  and  Other  Poems,"  published  in  1841,  "  Cal- 
aynos,"  atragedy,  published  in  1848,  and  olherworks, 


including  several  famous  ''War  Lyrics."  was  bom  in 
Philadelphia  in  1824.  Mr.  Boker  edited  Lippincott's 
Magazine  several  years,  and  subsequently  was  United 
States  Minister  to  Constantinople  and  St.  Petersburg. 
The  J.  B.  Lippincott  Company  are  the  publishers 
of  Mr.  Boker's  popular  works. 

Bonar,  Horatius. — ^The  author  of  many  beautiful 
hymns,  the  fame  of  which  is  world-wide,  is  a  native  of 
Scotland,  and  was  born  in  Edinburg  1808.  He  has 
been  for  many  years  a  minister  of  the  Free  Church, 
and  has  published  several  religious  works  which  have 
had  an  enormous  circulation.  One  of  his  best  known 
pieces  is  entitled  "  Beyond  the  Smiling  and  the  Weep- 
ing." 

Bowles,  William  Lisle.— He  may  bs  regarded  as 
the  forerunner  of  that  school  of  modern  poets,  such  as 
Wordsworth,  Southey,  and  Coleridge,  who  have 
adopted  a  charming,  easy  manner,  in  contrast  with 
the  stilted,  unnatural  measures  of  many  who  went  be- 
fore them.  Bowles  was  born  in  1762,  died  in  1850, 
and  was  by  profession  a  clergyman. 

Brainard,  John  Gardiner  Calkins.— A  descriptive 
poet,  born  at  New  London,  Connecticut,  1796;  died 
182S.  His  poem  on  "Niagara "  is  considered  the  best 
on  that  subject  yet  produced. 

Brainard,  Mary  G.— A  niece  of  John  G.  C.  Brain- 
ard, has  maintained  the  literary  reputation  of  the 
family.  She  is  the  authoress  of  "Not  Knowing,"  or 
"The  Last  Hymn,"  which  has  erroneously  been  as- 
cribed to  another  source. 

Brooks,  Charles  Timothy. — A  Unitarian  minister, 
born  at  Salem,  Massachusetts,  1813;  graduated  at 
Harvard  College  in  1832,  and  settled  as  pastor  at  New- 
port, Rhode  Island.  He  has  published  a  number  of 
translations  from  the  German. 

Brooks,  James  Gordon. — The  son  of  an  officer  in 
the  Revolutionary  Army,  was  born  at  Red  Hook,  near 
New  York,  September  3,  1801.  After  graduating  at 
Union  College  he  studied  law,  but  in  1823  became 
editor  of  the  Morning  Courier,  New  York.  In  con- 
nection with  hiri  wife  he  published  a  volume  of  poems 
in  1829.     Died  at  Albany  1841. 

Brooks,  Maria  Gowen. — A  native  of  Medford,  Massa- 
chusetts, where  she  was  born  in  1795.  Southey  pro- 
nounced her  "  the  most  impassioned  and  most  imagi- 
native of  all  poetesses."  Much  of  the  latter  part  of  her 
life  was  passed  in  Cuba,  where  she  died  in  1845. 

Brown,  Frances.— The  author  of  "Ah,  the  Pleasant 
Days  of  Old,"  and  other  popular  pieces,  was  born  in 
Ireland  in  1818,  and  died  in  1864. 

Browne,  Francis  F. — Editor  and  author,  was  con- 
nected several  years  with  the  Lakeside  Monthly, 
Chicago,  and  later  with  the  Chicago  Dial.  Born  in 
Vermont  in  1843. 

Browning,  Rober:.— In  1835  Mr.  Browning  wrote  his 


BIOGRAPHIES  OF  AUTHORS. 


611 


first  poem,  "Paracelsus,"  which  immediately  brought 
him  into  notice.  His  collected  poems  were  published 
in  1849,  1855  and  1S64.  Oflate  years  numerous  editions 
have  been  issued.     Bom  in  London,  1812. 

Browning,  Elizabeth  Barrett. — An  authores'of  wide 
celebritj^  born  in  London,  1809,  died  1861.  Her  works 
are  distinguished  by  depth  of  thought  and  feeling,  and 
are  better  appreciated  by  cultivated  readers  than  the 
general  public. 

Bryant,  William  CuUen. — One  of  the  most  dis- 
tinguished of  our  American  poets  and  men  of  letters. 
In  early  life,  Mr.  Bryant  gave  promise  of  his  coming 
fame,  having  written  his  "  Thanatopsis, "  perhaps  the 
finest  of  all  his  productions,  at  the  age  of  eighteen. 
For  many  years  as  author,  journalist,  and  honored 
citizen,  he  lived  in  the  eye  of  the  public,  enjoying  an 
enviable  distinction.  Born  in  Hampshire,  Massa- 
chusetts, 1794  ;  died,  June  12,  1878.  D.  Appletonand 
Co.,  New  York,  are  tlie  publishers  of  Bryant's  works. 

Buchanan,  Robert. — Born  in  Scotland,  1841,  and 
educated  at  the  University  of  Glasgow.  His  versa- 
tility embraces  tragedy  and  comedy,  as  well  as  ordi- 
nary poems. 

Buckingham,  Joseph  T. — The  gifted  editor  of  the 
New  England  Galaxy,  Boston  Courier,  and  New 
England  Magazine,  was  born  in  1779,  and  died  in 
1S61. 

Burger,  Gottfried  August. — One  of  the  most  popu- 
lar German  poets,  was  born  near  Halberstadt,  Prus- 
sian Saxony,  in  1748.  As  a  versifier  and  writer  of 
ballads  he  gained  wide  fame.    Died  1794. 

Burns,  Robert. — The  genius  of  Burns  is  recognized 
by  all  readers  of  English  literature.  It  gave  him  the 
name  of  "The  National  Poet  of  Scotland."  His 
writings  are  notable  for  genuine  feeling,  homely 
simplicity,  and  occasional  gleams  of  humor.  The 
poet  was  the  son  of  a  poor  peasant,  and  was  born  at 
Ayr,  January  25,  1759.  Through  poverty  and  many 
adverse  circumstances  he  struggled  upward  until  his 
name  became  a  household  word  in  his  own  and  other 
lands.  His  writings  touched  the  tenderest  chords  of 
human  feeling,  and  although  he  was  not  without  his 
failings,  these  were  kindly  dealt  with  by  his  many 
friends  and  admirers.     Died  in  1796. 

Butler,  Samuel. — The  famous  author  of  "  Hudi- 
bras"  was  bom  at  Strensham,  England,  in  1612,  and 
by  his  writings  made  a  marked  sensation  at  the  royal 
court  and  elsev/here  in  1663.  Died  in  abject  poverty 
in  London  1680. 

Byrom,  John. — Bom  near  Manchester,  England, 
1691,  graduated  at  Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  in 
1711,  travelled  extensively  in  France,  and  died  in  1763, 

Byron,  George  Gordon  Noel,  Lord. — one  of  the 
most  celebrated  of  English  poets,  whose  writings  have 
attracted  universal  attention,  while  their  merits,  as 


well  as  the  character  of  their  author,  have  been  widely 
discussed.  Byron  was  born  in  London  in  1788,  and  in 
in  his  eleventh  year  succeeded  to  the  title  and  estate, 
Newstead  Abbey,  of  his  uncle,  Lord  William  Byron. 
In  1807,  his  first  volume  of  verse,  entitled  "  Hours  of 
Idleness,"  was  published,  and  was  severely  handled 
by  the  critics.  Byron  replied  with  great  spirit,  and 
soon  published  other  productions  which  displayed  his 
remarkable  genius.  He  assumed  the  cause  of  Greece 
in  her  struggle  for  liberty,  and  died  in  1824,  after  pass- 
ing through  many  domestic  quarrels,  which,  it  must 
be  admitted,  were  the  occasion  of  some  of  his  tender- 
est, most  pathetic  effusions.  Whatever  judgment  is 
rendered  upon  the  moral  quality  of  some  of  his 
writings,  there  can  be  but  one  opinion  respecting  the 
brilliancy  of  his  genius  and  the  magnificence  of  his 
poetical  gifis. 

Campbell,  Thomas. — Author  of  "  The  Pleasures  of 
Hope,"  and  many  other  poems  marked  by  true  poetic 
genius,  was  a  native  of  Scotland,  and  was  born  at 
Glasgow  in  1777.  After  a  brilliant  literary  career,  he 
died  at  Boulogne  in  1844,  and  was  buried  in  Westmin- 
ster Abbey,  Lord.Macaulay,  Dean  Milman,  and  other 
celebrities  acting  as,pall-bearers.  Few  poems  of  any 
author  have  become  more  generally  known,  or  have 
been  received  with  greater  favor. 

Canning,  George. — A  distinguished  British  states- 
man and  orator;  born  in  London,  1770.  His  sym- 
pathies were  always  with  the  liberal  party,  and  his 
powerful  influence  was  thrown  in  favor  of  measures 
which  have  greatly  benefitted  the  common  people. 
Died  in  1827. 

Cary,  Alice. — This  well-known  American  author- 
ess first  came  into  notice  by  her  contributions  to  the 
National  Era,  for  which  she  wrote  under  the  noin  de 
pliitneol  "Patty  Lee."  Her  "Clovernook,"  comprising 
sketches  of  western  life,  was  popular  both  in  America 
and  England.  Several  works  of  fiction,  and  various 
poems,  have  also  met  with  marked  favor.  Born  near 
Cincinnatti,  Ohio,  1820,  died  in  New  York,  where  she 
resided  during  the  latter  part  of  her  life,  in  1871.  The 
writings  of  the  Cary  sisters  are  published  by  Houghton, 
Miffiin  and  Co.,  Boston. 

Cary,  Phoebe. — The  younger  sister  of  Alice  Cary, 
and  equally  gifted,  was  bom  in  the  Miami  Valley,  in 
1824,  and  died  in  1871.  Her  religious  writings  are 
marked  by  great  beauty  and  deep  feeling,  and  have 
gained  wide  popularity. 

Carey,  Henry. — An  English  author  of  essays, 
poems  and  dramas,  was  bom  in  1700,  and  committed 
suicide  in  1743. 

Carleton.Will  M. — Author  of  the  popular  "Farm  Bal- 
lads "  and  "Farm  Legends,"  was  bom  at  Hudson, 
Michigan,  1845.  The  above  volumes,  published  by 
Harper  and  Brothers,  New  York,  have  gained  for  Mr. 
Carleton  a  high  rank  in  contemporaneous  literature. 


612 


BIOGRAPHIES  OF  AUTHORS. 


Cary,  Lucius,  (Lord  Falkland. —Born  in  England  in 
1610;  died  in  1643,  An  admirable  critic,  and  genial 
companion. 

Channing,  William  EUery.— A  celebrated  Unitarian 
preacher  and  author.  Born  at  Newport,  Rhode  Is- 
land, 1780,  and  died  in  1842.  He  held  a  foremost  po- 
sition among  religious  authors,  was  bold  and  acute  in 
controversy,  and  left  behind  him  an  honored  name. 

Chatterton,  Thomas. — "The  marvelous  boy  who 
perished  in  his  pride,"  although  dying  by  his  own  hand 
at  the  age  of  seventeen,  had  already  astonished  the 
world  by  his  precocious  genius.  He  was  born  at 
Bristol,  England,  in  1752,  removed  to  London,  and 
suffered  extreme  poverty  during  the  latter  oart  of 
his  brief,  distinguished  career. 

Cherry,  Andrew. — Born  in  England,  1762,  distin- 
guished himself  by  the  composition  of  popular  ballads, 
aad  died  in  1812. 

Child,  Lydia  Mana. — American  writer  and  editor, 
author  of  a  "History  of  Rome,"  "The  Oasis,"  etc.; 
born  in  1802,  died  in  1880. 

Clare,  John. — The  peasant  poet,  whose  pastoral 
writings  have  decided  merit,  was  born  in  Northamp- 
tonshire, England,  in  1793,  and  died  in  1864. 

Clarke,  James  Freeman.— Clergyman,  author,  and 
editor,  is  a  native  of  Boston,  where  he  was  boi  n  in 
18 10.  He  has  always  been  forward  in  reformatory 
movements,  and  has  aided  them  by  his  versatile  pen. 

Coates,  Dr.  Reynell. — Known  as  the  author  of  "The 
Gambler's  Wife,"  was  born  in  1S02,  and  for  many 
years  resided  in  Camden,  New  Jersey.  He  has  fre- 
quently made  contributions  to  medical  literature. 

Coleridge,  Samuel  Taylor.— One  of  the  most  fa- 
mous of  English  authors.  Of  magnificent  intellectual 
endowments,  he  was  equally  distinguished  for  his  con- 
troversial power  and  imaginary  creations.  His  most  re- 
markable poem  is  the  "  Rime  of  the*  Ancient  Mariner." 
This,  with  a  number  of  fragmentary  pieces,  gave  him 
first  rank  in  the  literary  world,  while  it  is  conceded 
that  his  splendid  genius  was  used  but  fitfully,  and  with- 
out the  effect  of  which  it  was  really  capable.  Born  in 
Devonsliire,  1752  ;  died  in  London,  1834. 

Coleridge,  Hartley.— The  eldest  son  of  Samuel  Tay- 
ior  Coleridge,  and  possessed  of  talents  scarcely  less 
brilliant  than  those  of  his  distinguished  father.  Born 
in  England,  1796;  died,  1849. 

Colman,  George  (The  Younger).— Bom  in  England, 
1762  ;  died  in  1836.  A  theatrical  manager,  and  author 
of  poetical  pieces  well  received  by  the  reading  public. 

Cook,  Eliza.— The  popular  authoress  of  "  The  Old 
Arm  Chair"  began  her  contributions  to  periodical  lit- 
erature at  an  early  age.  A  volume  of  poems  issued  in 
1840  was  well  received.  Born  in  1817,  and  received 
a  literary  pension  in  1864. 


Cooke,  Rose  Terry. — Born  in  Connecticut  in  1827. 
Her  prose  and  poetical  works  are  of  a  high  order,  the 
prose  consisting  mainly  of  brief  sketches  contributed 
to  current  periodicals. 

Cowper,  William. — This  celebrated  English  poet, 
the  most  popular  in  his  generation,  infused  an  earnest, 
even  a  religious  spirit,  into  nearly  aU  his  writings,  yet 
his  ballad  on  "John  Gilpin,"  is  marked  by  an  exquis- 
ite humor.  Cowper  was  constitutionally  melancholy, 
and  this  threw  a  shadow  over  some  of  his  writings. 
Several  of  his  hymns  must  be  ranked  among  English 
classics.     Born  in  1731;  died  in  1800. 

Crabbe,  George. — The  people's  poet  and  celebrated 
delineator  of  lowly  life ;  also  a  well-known  divine. 
Born  in  1754  and  died  in  1832. 

Craik,  Dinah  Maria  Mulock. — The  gifted  author  of 
"John  Halifax,  Gentleman;"  also  a  volume  of  popular 
poems.     Born  in  England,  1826. 

Croly,  George. — Born  at  Dublin,  Ireland,  1785,  died 
in  i860.  A  writer  of  poetry  and  romances,  and  a  pul- 
pit orator  of  great  reputation. 

Cross,  Marian  Evans  Lewes,  (George  Eliot). — This 
celebrated  authoress,  who  wrote  over  the  signature  of 
"George  Eliot,"  displays  in  her  works  of  fiction  tal- 
ents of  the  highest  order.  These  are  sought  by 
readers  of  cultivated  taste,  and  some  of  them  have 
met  with  great  favor.  Their  originality,  profound 
thought  and  masterly  diction,  are  universally  ad- 
mitted.    Born  in  1820;  died  in  i88r. 

Cunningham,  Allan.— A  Scotch  poet  and  miscella- 
neous writer.  His  works  have  been  popular,  espe- 
cially his  biographies.  Born  in  Dumfriesshire  in  17S5, 
apprenticed  to  a  stone-mason  at  the  age  of  eleven,  and 
devoted  his  evenings  to  song  and  history.     Died  1842 

Cunningham,  John. — A  native  of  Ireland,  bom  in 
1729  ;  died  in  1773.  A  descriptive  writer  of  more  than 
ordinary  merit. 

Curtis,  George  William. — A  scholarly  writer  and 
orator,  an  earnest  advocate  of  civil  service  reform, 
whose  editorship  of  Harper's  Weekly  has  afforded  a 
field  for  his  versatile  talents.  Mr.  Curtis  was  born  in 
Rhode  Island  in  1824. 

Cutt«r,  George  W. — ^The  author  of  many  spirited 
poems,  some  of  them  relating  to  the  Mexican  War, 
and  others  descriptive  of  steam  power,  the  telegraph, 
etc.,  was  born  in  Kentucky  in  1814,  and  died  in  1865. 

De  Lisle,  Rouget. — Born  in  France,  wrote  at  Stras- 
burg  the  famous  '"Marseillaise  Hymn." 

Dibdin,  Charles. — Born  in  England,  1745  ;  died  in 
1814.  He  was  the  author  of  numerous  popular  songs. 
His  two  sons,  Charles  and  Thomas,  composed  songs 
and  dramas. 

,  Dickens,  Charles. — The  great  novelist,  whose  works 
of  fiction  are  known  and  read  throughout  the  civilized 


BIOGRAPHIES  OF  AUTHORS. 


613 


world,  and  who  gained  a  renown  unequalled  by  that 
of  any  author  in  recent  times,  was  bom  at  Portsmouth, 
England,  Febraary  7,  1812.  Becoming  disgusted  with 
law,  for  which  his  father  intended  him,  he  removed  to 
London,  and  became  a  reporter  for  the  Morning 
Chronicle.  His  first  literary  work  was  a  series  of 
sketches  for  this  paper.  With  the  publication  of 
"Pickwick  Papers,"  Dickens  sprang  into  sudden  popu- 
larity, and  thereafter  maintained  it  by  his  wonderful 
creations  in  the  realm  of  fiction,  and  the  charm  of  his 
transcendent  genius.  Died  June  9,  1870,  and  was 
buried  in  "Poet's  Corner,"  Westminster  Abbey. 

Dickinson,  Charles  M.— His  poems  are  characterized 
by  strong  emotion,  their  pathos  being  especially 
marked.     Born  at  Lowville,  New  York,  1842. 

Dickson,  David. — Author  of  "  The  New  Jerusalem," 
was  born  in  England,  1583  ;  died,  1662. 

Dimond,  William. — An  English  dramatist  and  poet, 
author  of  the  popular  "Mariner's  Dream,"  was  bom 
in  1800 ;  died  in  1837. 

Doane,  George  Washington. — Bishop  Doane,  of 
New  Jersey,  a  scholarly  author,  whose  writings  ex- 
hibit refinement  and  taste,  was  born  in  1799,  ^"d  died 
in  1859. 

Dobell,  Sydney. — A  somewhat  eccentric  writer, 
composed  verses  when  nine  years  old,  and  even  then 
showed  the  strange  mixture  of  the  philosophical  and 
poetical  spirit  seen  in  his  later  productions.  Born  near 
London,  1S24  ;  died  in  1874. 

Doddridge,  Philip. — Author  of  hymns  universally  in 
use,  and  various  religious  works,  was  bom  in  England 
in  1702,  and  died  in  1751. 

Dodsley,  Robert. — Author  and  publisher,  bom  in 
Nottingham,  England,  1703.  Composed  a  volume  of 
poems,  a  dramatic  piece  called  "The  Toy  Shop," 
which,  having  been  recommended  by  Pope,  was  pro- 
duced at  Covent  Garden  Theatre,  with  marked  suc- 
cess. Dodsley  first  gave  emplojment  to  the  after- 
wards renowned  Samuel  Johnson.     Died  in  1764. 

Drake,  Joseph  Rodman. — An  American  poet  of  un- 
questioned genius,  whose  popular  poems,  "  The  Cul- 
*  prit  Fay,''  and *"  American  Flag,"  met  with  universal 
favor,  contributed  to  the  press  when  sixteen  years  old, 
and  at  that  age  wrote  humorous  and  satirical  verses, 
over  the  signature  of  "Croaker,"  for  the  New  York 
Evening  Post.  This  precocious  author  was  born  in 
New  York  City,  1795,  and  died  at  the  early  age  of 
twenty-five 

Drajrton,  Michael. — Known  chiefly  for  his  spirited 
ballad-  of  "Agincourt,"'  was  bom  in  England,  1563, 
was  made  port-laureate  in  1626,  and  died  in  1631. 

Dryden,  John. — One  of  England's  greatest  poets, 
whose  stately  measures  and  lofty  conceptions  have 
commanded  wide  admiration.     Dryden  was  born  in 


1631  and  took  his  degrees  at  Trinity  College,  Cam- 
bridge. In  1670  he  was  appointed  poet- laureate,  with 
a  salary  of  two  hundred  pounds  a  year.  His  most 
famous  production  was  a  magnificent  satire  on  the 
political  commotions  of  the  time.  Died  in  1700,  and 
was  buried  in  Westminster  Abbey. 

Dufferin,  Lady. — Wrote  "  The  Lament  of  the  Irish 
Emigrant,"  a  poem  which  has  become  a  household 
treasure.  Her  father  was  Thomas  Sheridan,  and  h  r 
maiden  name  was  Helen  Selina.  Mrs.  Caroline  Nor- 
ton was  her  sister.  Lady  Dufferin  was  born  in  Ire- 
land in  1807,  and  on  account  of  her  beauty,  wit,  and 
accomplishments  was  a  general  favorite.  Died  June 
13,  1867. 

Duffy,  Sir  Charles  Gavan. — A  native  of  Ireland  ; 
bom  in  1816  ;  known  as  poet  and  journalist ;  Colonial 
Prime  Minister  in  Australia,  1871. 

Dwight,  John  Sullivan. — A  native  of  Boston,  Ma^^s- 
achusetts  ;  born  in  18 13.  His  beautiful  poem  entitled 
"True  Rest,"  shows  the  marked  features  of  his  writ- 
ings. 

Dwight,  Timothy. — Theologian,  pulpit  orator,  and 
president  of  Yale  College,  born  at  Northampton,  Mas- 
sachusetts, 1752 ;  died  in  1817.  The  literary  style  ©f 
President  Dwight  possesses  a  fine  combination  of 
strength  and  simplicity. 

Edwards,  Amelia  Blandford. — An  English  novelist 
and  occasional  writer  of  poetry;  bom  in  1S31. 

Elliott,  Ebenezer.— Styled  "The  Cora-Law  Rhy- 
mer," was  by  occupation  an  iron-founder.  During 
the  agitation  in  England  for  the  repeal  of  the  "Corn- 
laws,""  he  became  famous  for  his  spirited  verses.  Bom 
in  Yorkshire,  1781 ;  died  in  1849. 

Emerson,  Ralph  Waldo. — Poet  and  philosopher, 
highly  distinguished  for  originality,  profound  thought 
and  terseness  of  expression,  holding  the  highest  rank 
in  American  literature,  and  popularly  styled  "The 
Concord  Philosopher  "  Born  in  Massachusetts,  1803; 
resided  at  Concord,  New  Hampshire,  and  died  in 
1882. 

Embury,  Emma  C—  The  daughter  of  James  R. 
Manly,  an  eminent  physician  of  New  York.  Mrs. 
Embury's  pubUshed  works  exhibit  sense  and  a  hearty, 
natural  feeling,  united  to  true  refinement. 

English,  Thomas  Dunn. — Physician,  humorous  and 
dramatic  author,  born  at  Philadelphia,  181 9. 

Everett,  Edv/ard. — One  of  America's  most  finished 
orators,  whose  scholarly,  elaborate  writings,  together 
with  his  graceful,  p)olished  eloquence,  gave  him  great 
celebrity.  Mr.  Everett  was  born  at  Dorchester,  Massa- 
chusetts, 1794;  filled  with  honor  a  number  of  import- 
ant positions,  both  educational  and  political,  and  died 
in  1865.  He  combined  the  scholar,  gentleman,  states- 
man and  orator  m  an  eminent  degree. 


614 


BIOGRAPHIES  OF  AUTHORS. 


Falconer,  William.— His  only  remarkable  poem 
was  "  Th-i  Shipwreck,"  and  this  has  given  him  endur- 
ing fame.  He  was  of  poor  parentage ;  born  in  Scot- 
land, 1732,  and  died  in  1769. 

Farningham,  Marianne. — An  English  poetess  who 
has  contributed  many  religious  poems  to  the  London 
Chrisiian  Weekly.  Devout  piety  breathes  through 
all  her  writings. 

Fenner,  Cornelius  George. — A  native  of  Providence, 
Rhode  Island,  born  in  1822 ;  died  in  1847. 

Ferguson,  Sir  LJamuel. — A  native  of  Ireland,  born  in 
1805.  His  fine  genius  is  conspicuous  in  his  spirited 
poem,  "Forging  the  Anchor." 

Fields,  James  Thomas. — In  1871  Mr.  Fields  retired 
from  the  publishing  firm  in  Boston,  with  which  he  was 
connected  for  twenty-five  years.  During  this  period 
he  found  time  to  follow  his  literary  pursuits,  and,  as 
the  author  of  quite  a  number  of  poems,  and  editor  of 
the  Atlantic  Monthly,  he  gained  an  enviable  distinc- 
tion, exerting  a  powerfiil  influence  in  American  litera 
ture.  Born  at  Portsmouth,  New  Hampshire,  1S17  ; 
died  at  Boston,  1881. 

Finch,  Francis  Miles. — Author  of  "The  Blue  and 
the  Gray,"  one  of  the  most  popular  of  modern  lyrics; 
lawyer  and  judge;  was  born  at  Ithaca,  New  York,  in 
1827.  The  above  poem  was  suggested  by  the  women 
of  Columbus,  Mississippi,  decorating  alike  the  graves 
of  the  Union  and  Confederate  dead. 

Fosdick,  William  Whiteman. — Bom  in  Ohio,  1S25  ; 
died  in  1862. 

Foster,  Stephen  Collins. — A  very  -popular  com 
poser  of  negro  melodies,  born  in  Pennsylvania  in 
1826;  died  in  1864. 

Gage,  Frances  Dana. — A  poetess  of  ability,  and 
also  known  as  a  public  lecturer,  was  born  at  Marietta, 
Ohio,  1808. 

Gallagher,  William  D. — Author  of  "Miami  and 
Other  Poems,"  was  born  in  Philadelphia  in  1808.  His 
labors  have  mainly  been  devoted  to  journalism. 

Garfield,  James  Abram. — By  the  sheer  force  of  con- 
spicuous abilities  and  lionest  purposes,  Mr.  Garfield 
rose  from  humble  life  to  the  presidency  of  the  United 
States,  to  which  position  he  was  elected  in  18S0.  His 
assassination  a  few  months  after  his  inauguration  pro- 
duced a  profound  shock,  and  plunged  the  nation  into 
mourning.  His  published  speeche-i  and  addresses  are 
of  a  high  order.     Born  in  Ohio,  1831 ;  died  1881. 

Gay,  John. — This  English  dramatist  and  poet  whose 
successes  and  failures  were  alike  conspicuous,  was  a 
native  of  Devonshire.  In  early  life  the  occupation  of 
a  silk-mercer  was  distasteful  to  him,  and  he  began  his 
career  as  composer  of  dramas  and  ballads.  "  The 
Beggar's  Opera"  and  the  ballad  of  "Black-Eyed 
Susan,"  are  his  most  popular  productions.  Born  in 
1716;  died  in  1779. 

Gerhardt,  Paul. — A  German  poet  of  rare  merit, 
born  in  1607  ;  died  in  1676. 


Gilbert,  William  S.— Joint  author  with  Sullivan  ol 
"Pinafore,"  and  numerous  other  comic  operas,  which 
have  been  universally  popular,  was  born  in  England 
in  1836. 

Goldsmith,  Oliver. — The  g-nial  spirit  and  sound 
sense  of  Goldsmith  apptar  in  all  his  prose  and  poeti- 
cal writings.  In  humble  H.^'e  and  straitened  circum- 
stances, he  yet  left  a  rich  legacy  to  Englih  literature, 
and  his  works  have  gained  high  rank.  His  best  known 
prose  work  is  "The  Vicar  of  Wakefield,"  and  "The 
Deserted  Village"  is  the  sweetest  of  all  his  poems. 
His  comedy,  "She  Stoops  to  Conquer,"  has  enjoyed  a 
perennial  popularity.  Born  in  Ireland,  1728 ;  died  in 
London,  1774. 

Gough,  John  B. — Orator  and  reformer,  whose  lec- 
tures on  temperance  and  other  subjects,  delivered 
throughout  America  and  Great  Britain,  produced  the 
highest  oratorical  and  dramatic  effects,  was  rescued 
when  a  young  man  from  a  life  of  dissipation,  and  soon 
rose  to  unparalleled  fame  as  a  platform  speaker  and 
temperance  advocate.  Born  at  Sandgate,  Kent,  Eng- 
land, 1817  ;  he  came  to  New  York  when  but  a  boy, 
and  had  a  hard  struggle  with  poverty.  His  later  life 
was  marked  by  comfort  and  the  most  happy  home  in- 
fluences. Stricken  with  apoplexy  while  lecturing  at 
Frankford,  near  Philadelphia,  and  died,  1886. 

Gould,  Hannah  Flagg. — An  American  poetess,  born 
in  Massachusetts,  1787;  wrote  "Gathered  Leaves," 
etc. ;  died  in  1865. 

Gray,  David. — Born  in  Scotland,  1838,  of  humble 
parentage,  and  died  at  the  early  age  of  twenty- three. 

Gray,  Thomas.— The  author  of  the  famous  "  Elegy 
Written  in  a  Country  C  h  urch  -  Yard,  "has  gained  a  worl  d  ■ 
wide  renown  by  this  one  poem.  His  other  pieces  suP 
fer  by  comparison  with  this,  although  they  have  ahign 
degree  of  merit.  Gray  was  born  in  London  in  1716, 
declined  the  honor  of  poet-laureate  on  the  death  of  Col- 
ley  Cibber,  who  held  that  position,  and  died  in  1771. 

Greene,  Albert  Gorton. — Was  born  at  Providence, 
Rhode  Island,  1S02,  and  graduated  at  Brown  Univer- 
sity in  1820.  Studied  law,  and  became  prominent  in 
the  municipal  government  of  his  native  city.  He  has 
written  many  beautiful  fugitive  poems,  but  deserves 
special  mention  for  his  elegy  on  "  Old  Grimes."  Died 
in  1868. 

Hale,  Sarah  J. — This  gifted  American  authoress  was 
long  connected  with  two  periodicals  well  known  in 
their  day,  The  Ladies^  Magazine,  and  The  Ladies' 
Book.  Her  writings  are  chaste,  and  their  moral  tone 
is  beyond  criticism.  Born  at  Newport,  New  Hamp- 
shire, 1795  ;  died  in  1879. 

Haliburton,  Thomas  Chandler. — An  American  hu- 
morous writer,  popularly  known  as  "Sam  Slick." 
Author  of  the  "  Clockmaker,  or  the  Sayings  and  Do- 
ings of  Sam  Slick,  of  Slickville,"  and  "Sam  Slick  in 
England."  He  gained  great  celebrity  by  his  quaint 
and  graphic  delineations  of  Yankee  character.  Bom 
in  Nova  Scotia  in  1802  :  died  in  1S65. 


BIOGRAPHIES  OF  AUTHORS. 


615 


Hall,  Eugene  J. — This  popular  poet  whose  writings 
have  enriched  American  literature,  is  a  native  of  Ver- 
mont, where  he  was  born  in  1845. 

Hallam,  Arthur  Hanry. — Was  a  youth  of  uncom- 
mon promise,  the  son  of  the  distinguished  historian, 
Arthur  Haliam,  an  intimate  friend  of  the  poet  Tenny- 
son, and  the  ^ubject  of  Tennyson's  exquisite  poem, 
"In  Memoriam."  Born  in  London,  181 1  ;  died  in 
1833. 

Halleck,  Fitz-Greene. — One  of  the  most  spirited 
and  popular  of  American  poets,  the  author  of  "  Marco 
Bozarris,"  and  other  pieces  of  corresponding  merit, 
was  born  in  Guilford,  Connecticut,  1790  ;  died  in  1867. 

Harrington,  Sir  John. — Famous  for  his  epigrams 
and  sententious  writings.  Bom  in  England,  1561 ; 
died  in  1612. 

Harris,  Joel  Chandler — The  well  known  "Uncle 
Remus,"  whose  quaint  delineations  of  negro  character 
and  picturesque  stories  of  Southern  life  have  been  so 
generally  enjoyed,  has  cultivated  his  own  peculiar  field, 
and  ranks  among  the  first  writers  of  his  class. 

Harte,  Francis  Bret. — In  the  realms  of  poetry  and 
fiction,  Mr.  Harte  has  found  a  wide  circle  of  readers. 
He  is  particularly  happy  in  sketches  of  pioneer  lift*,  and 
delineations  of  western  character.  Born  in  Albany, 
New  York,  1839. 

Hawthorne,  Nathaniel. — As  a  master  of  language 
and  charming  writer  of  fiction,  no  name  in  American 
literature  holds  a  higher  rank.  Hawthorne's  cultured 
talent  shows  itself  in  his  chaste  and  finished  style,  the 
highly  intellectual  quality  of  his  writings,  and  his  fine 
analysis  of  character.  "The  Marble  Faun,"  "Mosses 
from  an  Old  Manse,"  and  "  The  House  of  the  Seven 
Gables,"  are  among  his  most  celebrated  works.  A 
melancholy  spirit  shadowed  his  life,  yet  this  seemed 
only  to  lend  greater  force  and  earnestness  to  his  re 
markable  genius.  Born  at  Salem,  Massachusetts, 
1804;  died  suddenly  at  Plymouth,  Massachusetts,  1864. 

Hay,  John.— Wrote  "  Castilian  Days,"  "  Pike  County 
Ballads,"  etc.,  and  is  known  as  an  enterprising  jour- 
nalist.    Born  at  Salem,  Illinois,  1839.    He  was  Presi 
dent  Lincoln's  private  secretary,  and  afterward  filled 
several  important  diplomatic  positions. 

Hayne,  Paul  Hamilton. — Poet  and  journalist,  editor 
of  Southern  Literary  Messenger,  Russell's  Magazine, 
etc.,  was  born  in  South  Carolina  in  1831. 

Heber,  Reginald. — An  eminent  divine  and  bishop  of 
the  English  church,  especially  devoted  to  the  cause  of 
missions  in  India,  where  he  died  in  1825  ;  was  born  in 
1783.  His  celebrated  hymn,  "From  Greenland's  Icy 
Mountains,"  has  been  sung  throughout  the  world. 

Hemans,  Felicia  Doro  hea. — Many  of  Mrs.  Heman's 
poems  are  household  friends  and  are  characterized  by 
rare  beauty,  loftiness  of  sentiment,  and  felicitous  ex 
pression!  Born  at  Liverpool,  England,  1794  ;  died  in 
1835.     Her  genius  was  exhibited  in  childhood,  her  first 


volume,  "Early  Blossoms,"' appearing  when  she  was 
fourteen  years  old.  Many  editions  of  her  collected 
writings  have  been  issued  from  the  press. 

Hervey,  Thomas  Kibble. — Known  chiefly  for  his 
satirical  poem,  "The  Devil's  Progress."  Born  in  Eng- 
land, 1804;  died  in  1849. 

Hobart,  Mrs.  Charles. — Author  of  the  well-known 
poem,  "  The  Changed  Cross,"  is  a  native  of  England. 
Her  fame  rests  principally  upon  this  one  popular 
piece. 

Hoffman,  Charles  t  enno. — Editor,  author  and  poet, 
of  New  York,  whose  name  was  connected  with  the 
Knickerbocker  Magazine,  and  other  periodicals,  was 
born  in  1806. 

Holland,  Josiah  Gilbert. — Doctor  Holland  was  a 
scholarly,  industrious  author,  whose  works  exhibit 
good  sense,  more  than  the  average  literary  ability, 
and  exert  a  healthful  moral  influence.  As  the  author 
of  "Timothy  Titcomb's  Letters,"  "Bittersweet," 
"  Nicholas  Minturn,"  and  other  popular  works,  and 
founder  of  Scribner's  Monthly,  he  has  long  been  favor- 
ably known  to  the  reading  public.  Born  at  Belcher- 
town,  Massachusetts,  1819  ;  died  in  1S81. 

Holmes,  Oliver  Wendell. — Our  distinguished  Ameri- 
can author,  whose  writmgs  in  both  prose  and  poetry 
have  been  the  delight  of  his  generation,  was  born  at 
Cambridge,  Massachusetts,  1809,  graduated  at  Havard 
College  at  the  age  of  twenty,  and  studied  medicine. 
His  contributions  to  the  "Atlantic  Monthly,"  have  met 
with  decided  favor.  His  collected  works  have  been 
issued  by  the  publishing  house  of  Houghton,  Mifflin 
and  Co.,  Boston. 

Hood,  Thomas. — The  genius,  the  poet,  whose  un- 
rivalled productions  by  their  pathos  and  humor 
awaken  alternate  tears  and  laughter,  most  of  whose 
life  was  a  sad  struggle  with  adversity,  was  born  in 
London  in  1798.  His  name  is  associated  with  the 
periodical  literature  of  his  time,  both  as  manager  and 
anchor.  His  best  known  pathetic  pieces  are  "The 
Song  of  the  Shirt,"  and  "The  Bridge  of  Sighs;" 
while  " Faithless  Nellie  Gray,"  and  "Faithless  Sally 
Brown,"  are  happy  specimens  of  his  rollicking  humor. 
Hood  died  in  1S45. 

Hopkinson,  Francis. — A  humorous,  patriotic,  Ameri- 
can writer  of  colonial  times,  signer  of  the  Declaration 
of  Independence  and  member  of  Congress  for  New 
Jersey:  born  in  1737  ;  ditd  in  1791. 

Hopkinson,  Joseph. — Wrote  "Hail  Columbia,"  one 
of  our  most  popular  national  ballads.  Bom  in  Penn- 
sylvania 1770;  died  in  1842. 

Howe,  Julia  Ward. — Noted  for  her  philanthropic 
spirit  and  advanced  views  on  the  questions  of  the  day; 
wife  of  Samuel  G.  Howe,  a  well  known  Boston  physi- 
cian and  philanthropist;  author  of  "  Battle  Hymn  of 
the  Republic  "  ;  was  bom  in  New  York  in  1819. 

How.tt,  Mary.— Born  at  Uttoxeter,  England,  180.;  ; 
a  member  of  the  Society  of  Friends,  married  to  Wil- 


616 


BIOGRAPHIES  OF  AUTHORS. 


liam  Howitt  in  1823 ;  her  maiden  name  was  Botham. 
In  connection  with  htr  husband  she  wrote  "The  For- 
est Minstrel,"  and  other  poems,  which  exhibit  fine 
literary  taste.  "  Her  language  is  chaste  and  simple, 
her  feelings  tender  and  pure,  and  her  observation  of 
nature  accurate  and  intense." 

Howitt,  William. — Author  of  prose  and  poetical 
works,  was  born  in  Derbyshire,  England,  1795.  His 
writings  are  characterized  by  purity  of  diction,  ele- 
vation of  sentiment,  and  a  high  moral  tone.  Died 
in  1879. 

Hugo,  Victor. — Ranks  among  the  world's  greatest 
authors,  displaying  in  his  poems  and  works  of  fiction 
a  genius  whose  brilliancy  stands  almost  unrivalltd. 
Asa  word-painter  he  has  rarely,  if  ever,  been  excelled. 
Born  in  France,  1802  ;  died,  1886. 

Hunt,  Leigh. — A  distinguished  name  in  English 
literature.  He  was  born  in  London  in  1784.  At  the 
age  of  twenty-four  he  became  editor  and  part  proprie- 
tor of  the  Examiner,  and  was  a  favorite  of  the  literary 
men  of  the  time.  Toryism  was  his  abomination,  and 
he  was  not  considered  to  be  greatly  in  love  with  even 
royalty.  For  a  sarcastic  thrust  at  the  Prince  Regent 
he  was  fined  five  hundred  pounds  and  sentenced  to 
two  years  imprisonment.  He  covered  the  bars  of  his 
cell  with  flowers,  and  received  visits  from  Byron, 
Shelley  and  Keats.  His  release  was  signalized  by  re- 
newed successes  in  the  field  of  literature,  although  a 
work  on  "  Lord  Byron  and  i-lis  Contemporaries " 
greatly    displeased  Byron's    friends.     Hunt  died   in 

1859- 

Ingelow,  Jean. — Born  in  England  in  1830.  Her  first 
volume  of  poems,  published  in  1863,  met  with  prompt 
and  universal  favor.  She  is  also  a  writer  of  fiction  that 
possesses  a  high  order  of  merit. 

Irving,  Washington. — An  honored  American  au- 
thor, almost  the  first  of  his  countrymen  to  give  fame 
and  favor  to  American  literature  abroad.  Irving  was 
a  genial  writer,  a  capital  story  teller  with  the  pen,  and 
his  works  have  been  received  with  universal  delight. 
Born  in  New  York,  1783  ;  died  in  1859. 

Jackson,  Helen  Hunt. — She  made  frequent  contribu- 
tions in  prose  and  poetry  to  various  periodicals,  usually 
writing  over  the  signature  of  "  H.  H."  Her  literary 
accomplishments,  including  a  vivid  imagination  and  re- 
markable command  of  language,  place  her  among  the 
most  distinguished  of  her  countrywomen.  Born  in 
Massachusetts  in  1831 ;  died  in  18S6. 

Jackson,  Henry  R. — Author  of  the  poem,  "My  Wife 
and  Child,"  was  born  at  Savannah,  Georgia,  1810. 
The  poem  was  written  while  Mr.  Jackson  was  a  Colo- 
nel in  the  Mexican  Army  in  1846. 

Jenks,  Edward  A. — Born  at  Newport,  New  Hamp- 
shire, 1835.  His  poem  entitled  "  Going  and  Coming," 
shows  the  marked  characteristics  of  his  style. 

Jerrold,  Douglas. — Author  of  the  celebrated  "Caudle 
Lectures,"  which  were  contributed  to  London  Punch 


in  1841;  also  of  the  comedy  of  "Black  Eyed  Susan," 
and  other  works  which  gave  him  great  fame  as  a  wit. 
Bom  in  London,  1803  ;  died  in  1857, 

Jonson,  Ben. — "Rare  Ben  Jonson,"  was  bom  in 
England,  1574,  and  died  in  1637.  He  was  a  man  of 
marked  ability  and  strong  character,  not  displaying 
any  finished  style  in  his  writings,  yet  infusing  a  rugged 
strength,  and  showing  a  masterly  grasp  of  his  subjects, 
which  made  him  one  of  the  famous  authors  of  his  time. 
His  dramas  and  tragedies  were  popular,  and  he  re- 
ceived a  pension  from  the  Crown,  but  on  account  of 
prodigal  habits  he  died  in  poverty. 

Keats,  John. — A  poetical  genius  who  gave  unusual 
promise,  born  in  London,  1796;  died  at  Rome,  Italy, 
1821.  Leigh  Hunt  welcomed  him  as  a  contributor  to 
the  Examiner,  and  he  soon  gained  a  wide  celebrity. 
His  "Endymion  "  appeared  in  1817,  and  soon  after  he 
published  a  volume  of  miscellaneous  poems.  His  un- 
timely death  quenched  one  of  the  brightest  stars  in  the 
literary  firmament. 

Key,  Francis  Scott. — Famous  as  the  writer  of  the 
patriotic  ode,  "The  Star-Spangled  Banner,"  which 
was  composed  during  the  bombardment  of  Fort 
McHenry,  and  published  in  Baltimore  the  following 
day.  Few  songs  have  ever  had  a  popularity  so  general 
and  emphatic.  Key  was  born  in  Maryland,  1799;  died 
in  1843. 

Kingsley,  Charles. — An  English  divine,  poet,  and 
writer  of  fiction,  whose  lyrics  are  popular  on  both 
sides  of  the  Atlantic,  and  whose  efforts  in  behalf  of  the 
working  people  of  his  own  country  have  endeared  him 
to  multitudes.     Born  in  England  in  1819 ;  died  in  1S75. 

Knowles,  James  Sheridan. — This  celebrated  drama- 
tist, author  of  "William  Tell,"  "The  Hunchback," 
"The  Wife,"  "  Virginius,"  etc.,  was  of  Irish  parentage- 
Born  in  1794,  and  died  in  1862. 

Knox,  William. — The  poem  beginning  with  the  line, 
"O,  why  should  the  spirit  of  mortal  be  proud? '  has 
become  celebrated  both  from  its  inherent  merit  and  the 
fact  that  it  was  the  favorite  of  President  Lincoln,  who 
never  seemed  to  weary  of  its  stately  yet  easy  rhythm. 
The  author  was  born  at  Firth,  Scotland,  1789.  An 
occasional  writer  before  the  age  of  thirty,  he  afterward 
devoted  himself  entirely  to  literary  pursuits,  but  unfor- 
tunately became  dissipated,  shattered  his  brilliant 
powers,  and  died  in  1S25. 

Lamb,  Charles. — Quaint,  witty,  popular  socially, 
highly  appreciated  for  his  literary  achievements,  thi 
rank  of  Charles  Lamb  in  the  world  of  letters  is  de-' 
servedly  high,  and  his  fame  appears  to  be  permanent. 
He  was  reared  in  humble  life,  and  for  many  years  was 
a  clerk  in  the  East  India  House,  London,  retiring 
when  fifty  years  old  on  a  pension  granted  by  the  board 
of  directors.  His  "Essays  of  Elia"were  originally 
published  in  the  London  Magazine.  He  never 
married,  but  lived  with  a  maiden  sister  to  whom  he 
was  devotedly  attached.     Bom  in  the  Temple,  Lon- 


BIOGRAPHIES  OF  AUTHORS. 


617. 


don,  1775 ;  died  in  1834,  and  buried  at  Edmonton, 
near  London. 

Landon,  Letitia  Elizabeth. — An  English  poetess, 
bom  in  1802  ;  died  in  1838. 

Lander,  Walter  Savage — Bom  in  England,  1775  ; 
died  in  1864.  First  became  known  as  the  author  of 
"Count  Julian,"  which  was  followed  by  a  poem  called 
"Gebir."  His  most  celebrated  work  is  "Imaginary 
Conversations  of  Literary  Men  and  Statesmen."  His 
writings  are  admired  for  their  originality  and  perfec- 
tion of  style. 

Lanier,  Sidney. — An  author  of  rare  accomplish- 
ments, who  left  a  treatise  upon  "The  Science  of  Eng- 
lish Verse,"  and  one  upon  "The  Development  of  tha 
English  Novel,"  also  several  volumes  of  writings 
adapted  to  the  young.  He  published  a  number  of 
poems  the  excellence  of  which  is  unquestioned.  His 
early  death  was  much  lamented.  Born  in  Georgia, 
1842 ;  died  in  1881. 

Larcom,  Lucy. — An  American  factory  girl,  teacher, 
and  authoress  of  wide  repute  ;  born  at  Lowell,  Massa- 
chusetts, 1826. 

Lawrence,  Jonathan  Jr.— A  poet  of  cultivated  taste, 
born  in  New  York  in  1807  ;  died  in  1833. 

Lewis,  Matthew  Gregory. — Wrote  the  well  known 
"Alonzo  the  Brave  and  the  Fair  Imogene,"  and 
"The  Maniac."    Born  in  England,  1775;  died  in  1818. 

Leyden,  John. — A  Scottish  poet,  also  eminent  as  an 
Orientalist  and  Antiquarian.  He  was  born  in  Den- 
holm,  Scotland,  1775 ;  died  at  Java,  1811,  and  during 
his  comparatively  short  life  was  a  voluminous  writer. 

Lincoln,  Abraham. — Twice  elected  President  of  the 
United  States ;  born  in  Hardin  County,  Kentucky, 
February  12,  1809  ;  assassinated  April  14,  1865.  As  a 
writer  Mr.  Lincoln  was  distinguished  for  clear  state- 
ment, a  comprehensive  grasp  of  his  subject,  a  plain, 
direct  style,  and  the  expression  of  great  truths  in  an 
epigramatic  form.  His  address  at  Gettysburg  is  one 
of  the  gems  of  American  literature. 

Longfellow,  Henry  Wadsworth.— Our  gifted  poet 
whose  works  lend  an  unrivalled  charm  to  American 
literature,  gained  a  world-wide  distinction,  and  is 
equally  honored  at  home  and  abroad.  Wherever  the 
English  language  is  the  common  tongue,  Longfellow 
is  read  and  admired.  Surpassed  only  by  Moore  in 
ease  and  elegance  of  rhythm,  some  of  his  productions 
have  so  touched  the  popular  heart  that  they  have  be- 
come familiar  in  almost  every  household.  His  style  is 
pure  and  simple,  his  thought  is  clear  and  transparent, 
while  there  is  an  elevation  of  sentiment  which  capti- 
vates the  most  cultivated  readers.  The  career  of 
Longfellow  began  in  early  life,  and  was  well  sustained 
for  a  long  period  of  time.  He  was  born  in  Maine, 
1807,  was  educated  at  Bowdoin  College,  was  made 
Professor  of  Modem  Languages  in  that  institution 
when  he  was  but  nineteen  years  old,  resided  a  con- 


siderable part  of  his  life  at  Cambridge,  Massachusetts, 
and  died  in  1882.  Publishers :  Houghton,  Mifflin 
and  Co. 

Lovelace,  Richard. — Born  in  England  in  1618,  and 
died  in  1658.  He  was  a  royalist  in  politics,  and  after 
enduring  imprisonment  and  many  sufferings  in  the 
cause  of  his  king,  spent  his  last  days  in  poverty. 
Among  his  poems  is  one  entitled  "  To  Althea  from 
Prison." 

Lover,  Samuel. — Poet,  artist,  musician,  novelist  and 
dramatist.  Many  of  his  ballads,  some  of  them  of  a 
humorous  character,  were  great  favorites.  Lover  was 
born  in  Ireland  in  1797,  and  died  in  1868. 

Lowell,  James  Russell. — Born  in  Boston,  Massachu- 
setts, in  1819.  By  his  volumes  of  poems  and  contri- 
butions to  periodical  literature,  he  has  gained  distinc- 
tion. He  was  editor  of  the  Atlantic  Monthly  from 
1857  to  1862 ;  editor  of  the  North  American  Review 
from  1863  to  1872;  published  "Under  the  Willows 
and  Other  Poems"  in  1869;  and  a  volume  of  essays 
in  1S70.  In  1879  he  became  United  States  Minister  to 
the  Court  of  St.  James.  Some  of  his  writings  are  en- 
livened by  a  broad  humor,  and  have  met  with  a  high 
degree  of  popular  favor. 

Lowell,  Robert  T.  S.— Wrote  "The  Relief  of  Luck- 
now."  Born  in  Boston,  Massachusetts,  in  1816.  His 
novel  "The  New  Priest,"  is  said  to  be  the  most  perfect 
specimen  of  pure  Saxon  of  the  present  century. 

Lyte,  Henry  Francis.— Widely  known  as  the  author 
of  the  beautiful  hymn,  "Abide  Whh  Me;"  a  Scottish 
poet  and  divine,  born  in  1793 ;  died  in  1847.  The 
above  hymn  receives  additional  interest  from  having 
been  written  during  the  last  hours  of  his  life. 

Lytton,  Edward  Bulwer,  Lord. — Novelist  and  dra- 
matist, born  in  England  in  1805,  died  in  1873.  His 
dramas,  "Richelieu,"  "Money,"  and  "Lady  of 
Lyons,"  have  been  received  with  marked  favor,  and 
his  works  of  fiction  have  met  with  that  appreciation 
always  accorded  to  a  high  order  of  talent  combined 
with  painstaking  labor.  He  has  been  classed  with 
Dickens,  and  other  novelists  of  the  foremost  rank.    . 

Lytton,  Robert  Bulwer,  (Owen  Meredith.) — Was  the 
only  son  of  Lord  Lytton.  His  poem  entitled  "  Lu- 
cile,"  has  given  him  high  distinction.  Born  in  1831, 
and  was  Viceroy  of  India  from  1876  to  1880. 

Macaulay,  Thomas  Babbington,  Lord. — Famous  for 
his  historical,  poetical,  and  miscellaneous  works,  a 
fine  master  of  English  diction,  member  of  Parliament 
and  the  House  of  Peers,  whose  productions  hold  high 
rank  in  English  classics.  Bom  in  1808  ;  died  in  1859, 
and  buried  in  Westminster  Abbey. 

MacCarthy,  Denis  Florence.— -An  Irish  poet,  born  in 
1817.  His  writings  exhibit  the  strong,  national  feeling 
so  characteristic  of  his  countrymen. 

Macdonald,  George.— Novelist  and  poet.  His  writ- 
ings are  moral  in  tone,  and  show  the  marks  of  the 
scholar  and  man  of  culture.     Bom  in  England  in  1825. 


618 


BIOGRAPHIES  OF  AUTHORS. 


Mace,  Frances  Laughton. — An  American  poetess 
who  has  made  popular  contributions,  especially  of  a 
religious  character,  to  current  periodicals.  Born  in 
Maine  in  1836. 

Macleod,  Norman. — An  eminent  Scottish  divine,  au- 
thor, and  chaplain  to  Queen  Victoria,  was  born  in 
Argyleshire,  1812.  His  name  is  associated  with  those 
popular  periodicals,  the  Edinburgh  Christian  Maga- 
zine and  Good  Works.     He  died  at  Glasgow,  1872. 

Macpherson,  James. — Born  in  Scotland,  1738.  He 
obtained  great  notoriety  in  the  literary  world  on  ac- 
count of  his  discovery  of  famous  manuscripts.  He 
published  the  "  Poems  of  Ossian,"  and  occasioned 
thereby  great  controversy.  Died  in  1796,  and  buried, 
at  his  own  request  and  expense,  in  Westminster  Abbey. 

Mahoney,  Francis. — Wrote  "The  Bells  of  Shan- 
don,"  and  other  famous  lyrics  ;  born  in  Ireland,  1805 ; 
died  in  1856. 

Marvell,  Andrew. — An  English  author  of  works  in 
both  prose  and  poetry.    Born  in  1620 ;  died  in  1678. 

Massey  Gerald. — An  English  poet  whose  hard  lot  in 
boyhood,  as  a  factory  operative,  undoubtedly  qualified 
him  for  writing  poems  characterized  by  detp  feeling 
and  a  tender  sympathy  with  humble  life.     Born  in  1828. 

Maturin,  Charles  Robert. — Born  in  England  in  1782; 
died  in  1824.  As  a  dramatist  he  possessed  remark- 
able power. 

McLellan,  Isaac. — For  many  years  a  promment 
merchant  of  Boston,  Massachusetts,  yet  gracing  Ameri- 
can literature  with  occasional  poems  of  more  than 
ordinary  merit.  Born  at  Portland,  Maine  1806,  and 
graduated  at  Bowdoin  College,  1826.  His  later  resi- 
dence was  in  New  York. 

Meagher,  Thomas  Francis. — An  Irish  patriot,  sen- 
tenced to  death  during  the  sedition  in  Ireland  in  1S48, 
but  was  transported  to  Tasmania,  whence  he  escaped 
to  New  York  in  1852,  and  on  the  outbreak  of  the  civil 
war  became  commander  of  the  Irish  brigade.  Bom  in 
1823  ;  drowned  in  Missouri  in  1867. 

Meek,  Alexander  Beaufort.— A  native  of  Columbia, 
South  Carolina,  where  he  was  born  in  1814.  His  most 
celebrated  poem  is  "  Balaklava."  Died  in  Georgia  in 
1865. 

Miller,  Joaquin. — An  American  poet  and  writer  of 
fiction.  His  early  life  was  spent  on  our  western  fron- 
tiers, and  the  scenes  of  many  of  his  writings  are  laid 
in  the  West.  He  is  gifted  with  a  high  order  of  imagi- 
nation.    Born  in  Indiana  in  1841. 

Milman,  Henry  Hart. — An  English  poet  and  eccle- 
siastical historian.  Born  in  London,  1791.  His  sacred 
lyrics  have  been  widely  read  and  appreciated.  Died  in 
x868. 

Milton,  John. — The  name  of  Milton  ranks  among 
the  greatest  in  English  literature.  His  prose  works 
gained  wide  celebrity,  but  he  is  chiefly  distinjiuished 


for  his  marvelous  creation,  "Paradise  Lost."  His 
blindness  seemed  only  to  quicken  his  inward  vision. 
His  poetical  works  brought  little  pecuniary  profit,  the 
manuscript  of  "  Paradise  Lost"  having  been  sold  for 
twenty-five  dollars.  Milton's  conceptions  were  of  the 
lofiiest  character,  and  his  style  evinces  the  strength  and 
stateliness  peculiar  to  the  literature  of  his  age.  Born 
in  London,  1608  ;  died  in  1674. 

Moore,  Clement  Clark.— Author  of  the  favorite  poem, 
"  A  Visit  from  St.  Nicholas."  He  was  a  son  of  Bi.:>hop 
Moore  of  the  Episcopal  church.  Born  in  New  York, 
1799  ;  died  in  1863. 

Montgomery,  James. — A  Scottish  poet,  distinguished 
for  his  religious  poems,  many  of  which  have  found 
their  way  into  the  hymnology  of  all  Christian  denomi- 
nations.    Born  in  Ayrshire,  1771 ;  died  in  1854. 

Moore,  Edward,— An  English  poet,  born  in  1712, 
died  in  1757. 

Moore,  Thomas. — This  celebrated  Irish  poet,  distin- 
guished for  true  genius,  easy  versification,  and  charm- 
ing fancy,  was  born  in  1799,  and  died  in  1852.  His 
Iribh  melodies  have  a  universal  popularity.  Moore 
was  a  great  social  favorite,  enjoying  the  friendship  of 
Byron,  and  other  celebrities.  "  Lalla  Rookh  "  is  his 
most  elaborate  work,  and  few  poems  have  ever  been 
so  pecuniarily  profitable. 

More,  Hannah. — One  of  England's  most  gifted 
women.  Her  first  ambition  was  to  shine  as  a  poetess; 
next  she  aspired  to  the  stage,  and  later  developed  a 
highly  religious  character,  which  appeared  in  l:er  well- 
known,  practical  writings.     Born  in  1745;  died  in  1833. 

Morris,  George  P. — Author  of  "  Woodman,  Spare 
that  Tree,"  "My  Mother's  Bible,"  etc.,  productions 
evincing  fine  poetic  talent ;  born  in  Pennsylvania,  1802; 
died  in  1864. 

Motherwell,  William. — A  Scottish  poet  and  anti- 
quary ;  author  of  "Jeanie  Morrison,"  and  other  popu- 
lar ballads.  Was  born  in  Glasgow  1797,  and  died  in  1835. 

Motley,  John  Lothrop. — The  distinguished  histor- 
ian, whose  scholarly  works  have  given  him  a  high 
rank  in  American  literature,  was  born  at  Dorchester, 
Massachusetts,  1814.  His  first  work  of  importance, 
"The  Rise  of  the  Dutch  Republic,"  was  published  in 
1856.    He  died  in  1S77. 

Moultrie,  John. — An  English  poet  who  first  became 
known  through  his  published  writings  in  1839. 

Neele,  Henry. — An  English  poet,  born  1798  ;  died 
1828, 

Newman,  John  Henry. — An  English  ecclesiastical 
writer  of  the  controversial  order;  also  author  of  sev- 
eral well  known  hymns,  among  which  is  "  Lead,  Kindly 
Light."  Born  in  1801,  and  is  a  Cardinal  in  the  Roman 
Church. 

JjicoU,  Robert. — A  Scottish  poet,  bom  in  1814 ;  died 
in  1837. 

Noel,  Thomas. — Author  of  "  The  Pauper's  Drive," 


BIOGRAPHIES  OF  AUTHORS. 


619 


and  other  "Rhymes  and  Roundelays,"  which  were 
published  in  England  in  1S41. 

Norton,  Caroline  Elizabeth  S.,  Hon. — An  English 
novelist  and  poetess  of  some  reputation.  She  was  the 
daughter  of  Thomas,  and  grand-daughter  of  Richard 
Brinsley,  Sheridan,  possessed  great  personal  beauty, 
and  was  a  social  favorite.  Born  in  1808  ;  died  in  1877. 

O'Brien,  Fitzjames. — A  native  of  Ireland;  born  in 
1829 ;  was  wounded  in  the  American  civil  war,  and 
died  in  Virginia,  1862. 

O'Hara,  Theodore.— A  Kentuckian,  who  achieved  a 
lasting  fame  by  his  "Bivouiac  of  the  Dead,"  a  poem 
composed  on  the  occasion  of  the  interment  at  Frank- 
furd  of  the  Kentucky  soldiers  who  fell  in  the  battle  of 
Buena  Vista.     He  was  burn  in  1820,  and  died  in  1867. 

Osgood,  Frances  Sargent.— Published  "A  Wreath 
of  Wild  Flowtrs  From  New  England,"  and  other  vol- 
umes of  poems.  Born  at  Bosloii,  Massachusetts,  1812  ; 
died  in  1S50, 

Osgood,  Kate  Putnam. — Born  at  Fryeburg,  Maine, 
1843.    She  is  the  author  of  several  fine  pastoral  poems. 

Paine,  Robert  Treat.— Son  of  one  of  the  signers  of 
the  Declaration  of  Independence,  was  born  in  Taunton, 
Massachusetts,  1773,  and  graduated  with  high  honor 
at  Harvard  College  in  1792.  For  a  time  he  engaged 
in  literary  pursuits,  attracting  wide  attention  by  his 
writings,  and  after  being  admitted  to  the  bar  in  1802, 
and  relapsing  into  irregular  habits,  he  died  in  181 1. 
Several  of  his  poems  on  '•  Liberty  "  show  traces  of  a 
masterly  hand. 

Palmer,  William  Pitt.— Author  of  "  The  Smack  in 
School,"  was  a  native  of  Stockbridge,  Massachusetts, 
and  bom  in  1805. 

Pardoe,  Julia. — An  English  writer,  distinguished  for 
her  works  of  fiction  and  historical  sketches.  She  was 
born  in  1806,  and  died  in  1862. 

Patmore,  Coventry. — An  English  poet,  whose  verses 
have  found  many  appreciative  readers.     Bom  in  1823. 

Payne,  John  Howard. — Author  of  "Home,  Sweet 
Home,"  which  was  written  while  he  was  United 
States  Consul  at  Tunis,  where  he  died  in  1852.  He 
was  born  in  New  York  in  1792,  and  in  early  life  was 
an  actor  in  American  cities  and  in  London.  His  re- 
mains now  repose  at  Washington,  D.  C,  where  a 
splendid  monument,  the  gift  of  Mr.  Corcoran,  the 
banker,  has  been  erected  to  the  memory  of  the  author 
of  our  sweetest  American  song. 

Peale,  Rembrandt. — A  noted  painter,  and  author 
of  some  celebrity,  born  near  Philadelphia,  Pennsyl- 
vania, 1778;  died  in  i860. 

Percival,  James  Gates. — Poet,  editor,  and  geologist, 
a  gentleman  of  many  scholarly  attainments  and  of  fine 
literary  taste,  was  born  in  Connecticut,  1795,  and  died 
in  Wisconsin  in  1857. 

Perry,  Nora.- Born  in  Rhode  Island,  a  poetical  au- 
thoress whose  songs  have  gained  celebrity. 


Phelps,  Elizabeth  Stuart, — Miss  Phelps  published 
her  first  and  withal  most  popular  work,  "  Gates  Ajar," 
in  X869,  and  from  that  time  has  been  prominent  as  a 
writer  of  fiction  and  poetry.  Her  conceptions  are 
original ;  the  intellectual  quality  of  her  works  is  pro- 
nounced, and  her  career  has  been  highly  successful. 
She  was  born  in  Massachusetts  in  1844. 

Pierpont,  John. — Unitarian  divine  and  poet,  promi- 
nent in  the  great  reforms  of  the  present  century,  and 
author  of  several  excellent  hymns,  and  more  elaborate 
poems.  He  was  born  in  Litchfield,  Connecticut,  in 
1785  ;  and  died  in  1866. 

Pinkney,  Edward  Coate. — The  son  of  William  Pink- 
ney,  of  Maryland,  born  in  London  while  his  father 
was  Minister  to  the  Court  of  St.  James,  1802.  His 
writings  were  few,  yet  meritorious.    Died  in  1828. 

Pitt,  William. — An  amusing  writer;  author  of  "The 
Sailor's  Consolation";  died  at  Malta,  1840. 

Poe,  Edgar  Allen. — An  American  poet  whose  most 
celebrated  poem,  "The  Raven,"  holds  first  rank  in 
our  poetical  literature.  Poe's  genius  is  universally  ac- 
knowledged. His  writings  bear  in  every  line  the 
stamp  of  originality;  his  conceptions  are  unique,  and 
his  style  of  versification  is  peculiarly  his  own.  He  was 
of  nervous  temperament,  unfortunate  in  some  of  his 
habits,  the  victim  of  adversity,  and  his  life  has  been 
the  subject  of  much  criticism,  while  his  works  have 
been  universally  admired.  Born  in  Baltimore,  Mary- 
land, 1809;  died  in  1849. 

Pollok,  Robert.— Celebrated  for  his  poem,  "The 
Course  of  Time."  He  was  born  in  Renfrew  Scot- 
land, in  1799;  licensed  to  preach  in  1827,  the  year  that 
gave  birth  to  his  poem,  and  in  which  he  died. 

Priest,  Nancy  Amelia  Woodbury. — Few  poems 
have  ever  touched  the  heart  as  "  Over  the  River  "  has, 
and  few  have  ever  been  so  phenomenally  popular. 
The  authoress  was  born  at  Hinsdale,  New  Hampshire, 
in  1837.  "Over  the  River"  was  published  in  the 
Springfield  Republican  in  August,  1857,  and  appears 
to  be  the  only  production,  with  one  exception,  by 
which  the  writer  is  known,  although  confessedly  pos- 
sessed of  the  highest  order  of  talent.     Died  in  1870. 

Pringle,  Thomas. — ^A  Scotch  poet,  born  in  1789, 
died  in  1834. 

Prior,  Matthew. — A  poet  of  eminence  in  his  day, 
born  in  England  in  1664,  and  died  in  1721. 

Procter,  Bryan  Waller  (Barry  Cornwall). — A  popu- 
lar ballad  writer,  whose  effusions  met  with  decided 
favor  when  published,  and  possess  the  charm  which 
assures  enduring  fame.  Procter  was  born  in  Eng- 
land in  1790,  was  a  barrister  at-law  by  profession  and 
died  in  1864. 

Ramsay,  Allen. — One  of  the  minor  Scottish  poets. 
Born  in  16S5 ;  died  in  1758. 

Read,  Thomas  Buchanan. — The  lyric  entitled 
"Sheridan's  Ride,"  commemorating  one  of  the  exploits 
of  the  great  cavalry  General,  has  had  a  more  general 


620 


BIOGRAPHIES  OF  AUTHORS. 


reading  than  anything  of  the  kind  ever  published  in 
this  country.  The  author  excelled  in  this  style  of  poe- 
try. His  genius  is  unquestioned.  The  poem  entitled 
"The  Closing  Scene,"  is  said  by  the  Wesiniinster  Re 
view  to  be  the  finest  written  in  the  present  generation. 
Mr.  Read  was  born  at  Chester,  Pennsylvania,  in  1822, 
and  died  in  1872.  The  J.  B.  Lippincott  Company  of 
Philadelphia  are  the  publishers  of  his  works. 

Redden,  Laura  C,  (Howard  Glyndon). — Bom  in 
Maryland  in  1840  ;  lost  hearing  at  the  age  of  twelve  ; 
has  contributed  some  excellent  articles  to  the  periodi- 
cal press. 

Rich,  Hiram. — Well  known  in  current  literature  as 
poet  and  essayist;  born  in  Massachusetts  in  1832. 

Richards,  William  C. — Clergyman,  scientific  lec- 
turer, poet,  and  journalist  of  repute;  born  in  England, 
1817,  and  since  early  Hfe  a  resident  in  this  country. 

Richter,  Jean  Paul.— A  German  humorist  and  sen- 
timentalist, who  ranks  high  in  the  literature  of  his  na- 
tive land.  Many  of  his  writings  have  been  translated, 
and  have  found  ardent  admirers  in  other  countries. 
There  was  a  singular  lack  of  appreciation  of  "Jean 
Paul  "  for  many  years  ;  slowly  his  works,  grotesque, 
humorous,  stamped  with  undoubted  genius,  have 
made  their  way  to  popular  favor.  Born  in  Bavaria  in 
1763  ;  died  in  1825. 

Rogers,  Samuel.— Author  of  "The  Pleasures  of  Mem- 
•ory,"  and  a  poem  on  "  Italy."  He  was  a  banker  in 
London,  of  high  social  position,  and  eminent  in  liter- 
ary circles.     Born  in  London  in  1763  ;  died  in  1855. 

Rossetti,  Dante  Gabriel. — A  painter  and  poet,  born 
in  England  in  1828  ;  died  in  1882. 

Ruskin,  John. — The  distinguished  prose  author  and 
critic,  whose  masterly  works  have  made  a  place  for 
themselves  in  the  hterature  of  our  day,  was  born  in 
London,  England,  in  1S19.  His  writings  on  art,  in- 
cluding "  Modern  Painters,"  "The  Seven  Lamps  of 
Architecture,"  and  "Stones  of  Venice,"  are  brilliant 
in  thought  and  exceedingly  forcible  in  style.  Elected 
Professor  of  Fine  Arts  at  Oxford,  1869;  received  the 
degree  of  LL.D.  from  the  University  of  Cambridge  in 
1871. 

Sands,  Robert  C. — Was  born  in  New  York  City, 
1799  ;  studied  law,  but  left  his  profession  for  literary 
pursuits,  and  became  distinguished  as  poet  and  jour- 
nalist.    Died  in  1832, 

Sargent,  Epes. — Poet  and  journalist,  author  of  edu- 
cational works,  etc.,  born  in  Boston,  Massachusetts, 
181 2  ;  died  in  1S80.  He  is  widely  known  as  the  author 
of  the  famous  ballad,  "A  Life  on  the  Ocean  Wave." 

Saxe,  John  Godfrey. — A  poet  who  excels  all  other 
American  versifiers  in  genuine  humor,  whose  writings 
have  gained  extensive  popularity;  born  at  Highgate, 
Vermont,  1816;  died  in  1886.  His  works  are  pub- 
lished by  Houghton,  Mifflin  and  Co.,  Boston,  Mass. 

Schiller,  Friedrich. — A  renowned  German  author, 


born  at  Wurtemberg,  in  1759 ;  died  in  1805.  Many  of 
his  poems  are  rarities,  and  have  been  translated  into 
other  tongues,  and  widely  read. 

Scott,  Sir  Walter.— The  renowned  Scottish  novelist 
and  poet,  whose  immortal  works,  celebrating  the  his- 
tory and  romance  of  his  native  country,  have  had  a 
phenomenal  popularity,  was  born  in  Edinburgh,  1771, 
Of  delicate  health  in  early  life,  he  slowly  advanced  to 
a  sturdy  manhood,  and  became  distinguished  as  an 
author  at  a  period  comparatively  late.  His  works  are 
voluminous,  the  "  Waverly  Novels,"  being  among  the 
famous  works  of  fiction,  while  "The  Lay  of  the  Last 
Minstrel,"  and  "The  Lady  of  the  Lake,"  hold  high 
rank  in  the  realm  of  poetry.     Died  in  1832. 

Shakespeare,  William. — He  lives  in  a  kingdom  by 
himself.  Few  of  the  works  of  other  authors  have  ever 
approached  his  sublime  creations.  Born  at  Stratford- 
on-Avon,  England,  April  23,  1564  ;  an  actor  in  Lon- 
don, 15S9;  author  of  dramas  to  the  number  of  thirty- 
seven;  retired  to  his  native  town  in  1610 ;  died  in 
1616,  and  was  buried  in  the  church  vaults  at  Stratford. 
A  drinking  fountain,  presented  to  his  town  by  Mr. 
George  W.  Childs,  of  Philadelphia,  in  1887,  was  a  fitting 
testimonial  of  the  admiration  felt  by  Americans  for 
the  works  of  the  greatest  of  all  dramatists. 

Sharpe,  R.  S.— Author  of  "The  Minute  Gun," 
born  in  England,  1759;  died  in  1835. 

Shelley,  Percy  Bysshe.— A  brilliant  young  English 
poet,  who  died  at  the  age  of  twenty-eight,  in 
1822.  His  liberal  opinions  upon  social  and  religious 
questions  prejudiced  the  minds  of  many,  yet  in  the 
later  review  of  his  poems  the  world  has  been  forced 
to  concede  to  him  the  highest  order  of  genius.  His 
poem  on  "The  Cloud  "  is  not  surpassed  by  anything 
of  its  kind  in  the  English  language. 

Shenstone,  William. — A  pastoral  poet  of  England  ; 
born  in  1714  ;  died  in  1763. 

Sheridan,  Richard  Brinsley. — Famous  for  his  wit, 
dramatic  and  oratorical  talent,  as  well  as  for  his  reck- 
less habits,  was  born  in  Ireland  in  175 1,  and  died  in 
i8i6. 

Shillaber,  Benjamin  P.— Bom  in  New  Hampshire, 
1814  ;  connected  for  many  years  with  the  Boston  Post, 
and  other  periodicals,  and  famous  as  the  author  of  the 
sayings  of  "  Mrs.  Partington." 

Sigourney,  Lydia  Huntley. — A  name  honorably  as- 
sociated with  our  country's  literature,  and  represent- 
ing abilities  of  a  high  order.  Mrs.  Sigourney  was  a 
poetess  from  childhood,  and  although  never  reaching 
the  lofty  flights  of  some  of  her  contemporaries,  her 
writings  have  the  charm  of  deep  feeling,  elevation  of 
sentiment,  and  graceful  expression.  She  was  born  at 
Norwich,  Connecticut,  in  1791,  and  died  in  1865. 

Simmons,     Bartholomew. — An    Irish    poet    whose 
works  were  published  in  1843.     He  died  in  1850. 
Smith,  Alexander. — Author  of  "A  Life  Drama," 


BIOGRAPHIES  OF  AUTHORS. 


621 


and  several  other  poems,  made  a  decided  sensation  in 
Scotland  when  his  poems  first  appeared.  He  was 
born  at  Kilmarnock  in  1830;  made  secretary  of  the 
University  of  Edinburgh  in  1854,  and  died  in  1867. 

Smith,  Horace. — Famous  for  his  wit  ;  was  tlie  au- 
thor, with  his  brother  James,  of  "The  Rejected  Ad- 
dresses," and  other  popular  works.  Born  in  Eng- 
gland,  1779  ;  died  in  1849. 

Somerville  William.— An  English  poet,  author  of 
"  The  Chase,"  etc.,  born  in  1677  ;  died  in  1742. 

Southey,  Caroline  Bowles. — Second  wife  of  the  poet 
Southey,  an  authoress  of  wide  repute,  born  in  Eng- 
land, 1787  ;  died  in  1854. 

Southey,  Robert. — He  gained  an  enviable  position 
as  writer  of  prose  and  poetry,  and  like  Wordsworth, 
may  be  called  a  "poet  of  nature."  Born  at  Bristol, 
England,  1774  ;  made  poet-laureate,  1813,  and  died  in 
1843. 

Spencer,  William  Robert. — A  writer  of  "Society 
Verses,"  also  of  what  may  be  termed  domestic  poems, 
was  born  in  England  in  1770,  and  died  in  1834. 

Spenser,  Edmund. — One  of  the  fathers  of  English 
literature.  His  most  renowned  poem  is  the  "Faerie 
Queene."     Born  in  England,  1553  ;  died,  1599. 

Spofford,  Harriet  Prescott.— Bom  at  Calais,  Maine, 
1835.  She  is  the  author  of  several  volumes  of  prose 
writings,  and  has  written  poems  which  have  met  with 
marked  favor. 

Sprague,  Charles. — "  The  banker-poet,"  bom  in 
Boston,  Massachusetts,  1791  ;  died  in  1875. 

Stedman,  Edmund  Clarence. — ^Journalist,  poet,  and 
critic,  was  connected  with  newspapers  in  Norwich  and 
Winsted,  Connecticut,  before  devoting  himself  wholly 
to  authorship.  Few  of  the  younger  poets  of  America 
have  gained  the  favor  granted  to  his  writings,  which 
are  marked  by  severe  taste  and  scholarly  culture. 
Born  at  Hartford  in  1833. 

Sterling,  John. — A  meritorious  poet,  bom  in  Scot- 
land, 1806  ;  died  in  1844, 

Stevens,  George  Alexander.— An  English  poet,  bom 
in  1720;  died  in  1784. 

Stoddard,  Richard  Henry. — Our  American  poet, 
whose  chaste  and  elegant  writings  have  graced  the 
literature  of  his  native  land,  published  his  fir^t  volume 
in  1842,  and  a  complete  edition  of  his  works  in  1880. 
Most  of  his  life  has  been  devoted  to  journalism  in  New 
York ;  he  was  at  one  time  editor  of  The  Aldine,  an 
illustrated  journal  of  first  rank.  Born  at  Hingham, 
Massachusetts,  1826. 

Stowe,  Harriet  Beecher.— A  name  which  holds 
highest  rank  in  American  literature.  As  the  author  of 
"  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin  "  she  gained  a  world-wide  cele- 
brity. Her  subsequent  writings  have  met  with  very 
high  appreciation,  and  few  authors  in  modern  times 
have  had  so  large  a  circle  of  readers  and  admirers. 
Born  at  Litchfield,  Connecticut,  1812. 


Swain,  Charles. — An  etigraver  by  occupation,  and 
possessed  of  natural  genius  which  distinguished  him  as 
a  poet.     Born  in  England,  1803,  died  in  1874. 

Swift,  Jonathan. — An  acknowledged  genius,  whose 
humorous  and  satirical  writings  gave  him  great  fame. 
He  was  born  of  English  parents  in  Dublin.  Ireland,  in 
1667;  author  of  "The  Tale  of  a  Tub,"  "Gulliver's 
Travels,"  and  other  works  which  have  gained  celeb- 
rity.    Died  in  1745. 

Swinburne,  Algenon  Charles. — An  English  poet, 
whose  works  have  been  admired  for  their  genius,  and 
severely  criticised  for  their  lack  of  moral  sentiment. 
They  show  a  strange  obscurity  in  style,  combined  with 
a  remarkable  variety  of  unusual  measures.  Born  in 
1837. 

Tappan,  William  Bingham.  —7  Esf>ecially  distin- 
guished as  a  hymn  writer.  "  There  is  an  Hour  of 
Peaceful  Rest,"  and  " 'Tis  Midnight  and  on  Olive's 
Brow,"  are  among  his  favorite  pieces.  Born  in  Massa- 
chusetts, 1795;  died  in  1849. 

Taylor,  Bayard. — Renowned  as  author  of  works  of 
travel,  eminent  also  as  poet  and  miscellaneous  writer. 
For  many  years  he  was  a  journalist,  and  was  connected 
with  the  iV^zy  York  Tribune.  Bom  at  Kennet  Square, 
Pennsylvania,  1825  ;  died  while  United  States  Minister 
at  Berlin,  Germany,  in  1878. 

Tennyson,  Alfred.- England's  poet-laureate,  bom  in 
1809.  His  splendid  genius  has  given  him  the  first 
place  among  English  poets.  His  works  are  marvels 
of  beauty,  profound  thought,  ardent  feeling  and  felici- 
tous style.  Tennyson  is  perhaps  even  more  popular 
in  America  than  in  his  own  country. 

Thompson,  James. — The  distinguished  author  of 
"  The  Seasons,"  in  which  word-painting  is  carried  to  a 
high  degree  of  perfection.  His  writings  are  rich  in 
thought  and  expression,  and  are  remarkable  alike  for 
simplicity  and  luxuriance  of  language.  Born  in  1700  ; 
died  in  1748. 

Thorpe,  Rose  Hartwick. — Author  of  the  well-known 
poem,  "  Curfew  Must  Not  Ring  To  night,"  was  bom 
at  Litchfield,  Michigan,  1840. 

Timrod,  Henry. — An  American  poet  of  fine  endow- 
ments. His  poems  are  remarkable  for  pathos  and 
beautiful  description.  Bom  in  Charleston,  South  Caro- 
lina, 1829;  died  in  1867. 

Tilton,  Theodore, — Formerly  editor  of  The  New 
York  Independent ;  a  journalist  and  poet  of  versatile 
talents,  and  writer  of  fiction.  Born  in  New  York  in 
1835. 

Trowbridge,  John  Townsend.  —The  popular  author 
of  character  poems,  also  of  juvenile  works,  was  bom  at 
Ogden,  New  York,  in  1827.  Few  writers  are  more  en- 
tertaining, or  deservedly  popular.  In  wholesome 
humor  he  particularly  excels.  Harper  &  Brothers, 
New  York,  are  the  publishers  of  most  of  his  works. 

Tuckerman,    Henry  Theodore.  —  Editor,   essayist, 


622 


BIOGRAPHIES  OF  AUTHORS. 


journalist,  author,  excelling  in  each  department  of  lit- 
erary labor ;  born  in  Boston,  Massachusetts,  in  1813  ; 
died  in  1871. 

Upton,  James. — Author  of  "  The  Lass  of  Richmond 
Hill,"  born  in  England  in  1670 ;  died  in  1749. 

"Waller,  Edmund. — Popular  as  a  poet  in  his  day, 
but  not  celebrated  subsequently.  Many  of  his  poems, 
however,  are  well  worth  reproducing,  and  have  un- 
questioned merit.  He  was  born  in  England  in  1605, 
and  died  in  1687. 

Watts,  Isaac. — For  generations  Watts'  hymns  have 
been  known  and  sung.  Their  number  and  excellence 
have  never  been  surpassed.  Watts  was  a  poet  from 
his  childhood,  and  expressed  himself  in  verse  almost 
as  easily  as  in  prose.  Apart  from  his  sacred  lyrics,  he 
was  a  well  known  author,  his  works  being  especially 
valuable  for  their  practical  and  moral  character.  Born 
in  1674  ;  died  in  1748. 

Webster,  Daniel. — One  of  America's  most  distin- 
guished statesmen  and  orators,  whose  intellectual  and 
oratorical  triumphs  at  the  bar  and  in  the  forum  were 
long  the  pride  of  his  country.  He  had  warm  political 
friends  and  bitter  enemies.  The  latter  accused  him  of 
a  time-serving  spirit,  and  an  unscrupulous  ambition  to 
obtain  the  Presidency.  His  literary  style  is  pure  and 
elevated,  and  all  his  writings,  including  his  political 
speeches,  bear  the  stamp  of  the  highest  order  of  ge- 
nius. Born  at  Salisbury,  New  Hampshire,  in  1782;  died 
at  Marshfield,  Massachusetts,  1852. 

Welby,  Amelia  B.  Coppuck. — Her  poetry  is  held 
in  high  esteem  for  its  power  of  description.  Born  at 
St.  Michaels,  Maryland,  1821 ;  died  in  1852. 

Wheeler,  Ella. — The  latest  addition  to  American 
poets ;  a  resident  of  Michigan,  and  subsequently  of 
Connecticut.  She  has  been  a  contributor  to  the  press, 
and  has  also  issued  a  volume  of  poems. 

Whitcher,  Frances  Miriam. — Author  of  the  famous 
"Widow  Bedott  Papers,"  which  were  first  issued  in 
Godey's  Lady's  Book,  Philadelphia,  and  sent  a  ripple 
of  laughter  throughout  the  country.  The  humor  is 
perennial,  and  "  Elder  Sniffles  "  and  "Widow  Bedott " 
are  characters  known  not  only  on  the  stage,  but  in 
almost  every  household  of  the  land.  Born  at  Whites- 
borough,  New  York,  in  1812  ;  died  in  1852. 

White,  Henry  Kirke. — One  of  England's  gifted 
young  poets,  whose  early  death  was  much  lamented. 
He  had  already  given  sign  of  unusual  distinction  as  a 


poet,  and  his  works  are  still  treasured  by  the  lovers  of 
pure  sentiment  and  vivid  coloring.  Born  in  1785 ; 
died  in  1806. 

Whittier,  John  Greenleaf.— *' The  Quaker  Poet." 
His  writings  are  models  of  spiritual,  benevolent  and 
patriotic  sentiment.  Having  a  warm  sympathy  with 
the  poor  and  oppressed,  he  has  employed  his  graceful 
pen  with  fine  effect  in  the  cause  of  humanity,  and  no 
author  of  our  time  is  more  beloved.  Born  at  Haver- 
hill, Massachusetts,  1807.  The  publishers  of  Whittier's 
works  are  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.,  Boston,  Massa- 
chusetts. 

Willis,  Nathaniel  Parker.  —A  poet  ol  distinctioM, 
whose  "  Sacred  Poems"  especially,  have  had  a  large 
circle  of  admirers.  His  versification  is  easy,  and  his 
descriptions  abound  in  word  painting  of  a  high  order. 
Willis  was  also  successful  as  a  journalist,  and  a  favor- 
ite in  general  society.  Born  in  Portland,  Maine,  1807 ; 
died  in  1S67. 

Wilson,  Arabella  M. — Author  of  the  highly  hu- 
morous poem,  "  To  the  'Sextant.'"  Born  at  Canan. 
daigua.  New  York. 

Wilson,  Byron  Forcejrthe. — An  American  poet  of 
great  promise,  already  distinguished  by  his  original 
and  masterly  productions,  when  his  successful  career 
was  terminated  by  death.  "The  Old  Sergeant,"  pub- 
lished in  1863  as  the  "  Carrier's  Address"  of  the  Louis- 
ville Courier  Journal^  ranks  among  the  best  of  its 
kind.     Born  in  New  York,  1837  ;  died  in  1867. 

Wilson,  John. — One  of  the  ornaments  of  Scottish 
literary  circles,  a  man  of  high  attainments,  fine  taste, 
and  extensive  popularity.  He  was  born  in  1785  ;  died 
in  1834. 

Wolfe,  Charles. — Lord  Byron  pronounced  his  ode 
on  "  The  Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore,"  the  most  perfect 
in  the  language.  His  poems  are  few,  his  life  having 
been  devoted  to  clerical  pursuits.  Born  in  Ireland, 
1791 ;  died  in  1823. 

Wordsworth,  William. — A  great  name  in  the  litera- 
ture of  England.  Wordsworth  has  been  called  "the 
poet  of  nature,"  his  vivid  descriptions  of  the  external 
world  being  among  the  finest  products  of  his  pen.  His 
writings  show  a  certain  gravity  and  thoughtfulness 
which  render  them  enduring  monuments  of  literary 
genius,  although  hindering  the  sudden  appreciation  of 
their  transcendent  excellence.  Born  in  1770 ;  made 
poet  laureate  in  1843  ;  died  in  1850. 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 


A  Baby  >*ftrs  sreeping 372 

Abide  with  ^^e  r  Fast  Falls  the  Eventide    .     .     .  372 

Above  the  Pines  the  Moon  was  Slowly  Drifting  .  276 

A  Butterfly  Basked  On  a  Baby's  Grave  ....  257 

A  Chieftain  to  the  Highlands  Bound 44 

A  Country  Life  is  Sweet  I 308 

A  District  School  Not  Far  Away 70 

A  Farmer,  as  Records  Report 440 

After  Life's  Long  Watch  and  V/ard 345 

A  Fire's  a  Good,  Conipanionable  Friend^     ...  19 

A  Footstep  Struck  Her  Ear 199 

Again  'Twas  Evening.    Agnes  Kntlt      ....  268 

A  Gentle  Stream  Whose  I'athway  Lay  ....  387 

A  Good  Wife  Rose  from  Her  Bed  One  Morn    .  20 

Ah,  Here  it  is  !  Im  Famous  Now 466 

Ah !  Little  They  Know  of  'lYue  Happiness,  They 

Whom  Satiety  Fills 302 

Ah  !  My  Heart  is  Weary  Waiting 132 

Ah  Now,  in  Youth,  How  Beautiful 401 

Ah,  the  Poor  Shepherd's  Mournrji  Fate  ...  96 
Ah,  then,  How  Sweetly  Closea  those  Crowded 

Days 403 

Ah  !  What  Avail  the  Largest  Gifts  ot  Heaven    .  312 

Alas  !  They  Had  Been  Friends  in  Youth    ...  82 

A  Life  On  the  Ocean  Wave 237 

A  Light  is  Out  in  Italy 350 

A  Little  Child  Beside  the  Window-pane    .     .     .  391 

A  Little  Sunbeam  in  the  Sky    .......  409 

All  Day,  Like  Some  Sweet  Bird,  Content  to  Sing,  32 
All  Day  Long  the  Storm  of  Battle  Through  the 

Startled  Valley  Swept 63 

All  Farewells  Should  be  Sudden,  When  Forever  322 

All  in  the  Downs  the  Fleet  was  Moored    .     .    .  ic8 

All  of  Us  in  One  You'll  Find 441 

"All  Quiet  Along  the  Potomac,"  They  Say    .     .  252 

All-rulinsr  Tyrant  of  the  Earth 441 

All's  for  the  Best !  Be  Sanguine  and  Cheerful    .  384 

All  That  is  Like  a  Dream.     It  Don't  Seem  True  289 

All  Thoughts,  All  Passions,  All  Delights     ...  86 

Aloft  Upon  an  Old  Basaltic  Crag 342 

Alone  in  the  Dreary,  Pitiless  Street 20 

Alone  I  Walk'd  the  Ocean  Strand 48 

A  Lover  Gave  the  Wedding  Ring 95 

A  Maiden  Fair  and  Young 534 

A  Maiden  Fair  to  See 562 

Amazing,  Beauteous  Change 381 

A  Moment  Then  Lord  Marmion  Stayed  ....  190 
And  Ardennes  Waves  AboTe  Them  Her  Green 

Leaves    .     * 208 

And  has  the  Earth  Lost  Its  so  Soacious  Round  .  17 


And  is  there  CSCTe  ifi  Hea\''en?  And  is  there  Love  375 

And  Now  the  Bell— the  Bell 40 

And  There  Two  Runners  Did  the  Sign  Abide  .    .  97 

And  Thebes,  How  Fallen  Now!  her  Storied  Gates  359 

And  What  is  So  Rare  as  a  Day  in  June?    .     .    .  120 

"An  Surel  was  Tould  to  Come  Till  Yer  Honor"  451 

Announced  by  All  the  Trumpets  of  the  Sky  .     .  136 

A  Pale  Weeping-Willow  Stands  Yonder  Alone  .  326 

A  Poor  Little  Girl  in  a  Tattered  Gown  ....  364 

A  Pretty  Deer  is  Dear  to  Me> 434 

A  Roar  Like  Thunder  Strikes  the  Ear    ....  250 

A  Ruddy  Drop  of  Manly  Blood 89 

As  at  their  Work  Two  Weavers  Sat 393 

As  Beautiful  Kitty  One  Morning  Was  Tripping  .  84 

As  Other  Men  Have  Creed,  so  Have  I  Mine  .     .  385 

As  the  poor  Panting  Hart  to  the  Water-Brook  runs  338 

As  Through  the  Land  at  Eve  We  Went    ...  26 
As  When  to  One  Who  Long  Hath  Watched  the 

Morn 140 

A  Simple  Child 399 

A  Soldier  of  the  Legion  Lay  Dying  in  Algiers    .  47 

A  Song  for  the  Plant  of  My  Own  Native  West    .  160 

A  Song  to  the  Oak,  the  Brave  Old  Oak  ....  121 

A  Squire  of  Wales,  whose  Blood  Ran  Higher   .  440 

A  Thing  of  Beauty  is  a  Joy  Forever 257 

At  Last  the  Happy  Day  is  Named 96 

At  Length  Olympian  Lord  of  Morn 346 

At  Setting  Day  and  Rising  Morn 87 

At  Summer  Eve,  When  Heaven's  ^rial  Bow    .  277 

A  Vicious  Goat  One  Day  had  Found     ....  405 

A  Warrior  So  Bold,  and  a  Virgin  So  Bright    .     .  52 

A  Weary  Weed,  Tossed  To  and  Fro 226 

A  Wet  Sheet  and  a  Flowing  Sea 219 

A  Weaver  Sat  by  the  Side  of  His  Loom    .     .    .  292 

A  Well  there  is  in  the  West  Country    ....  468 
A  Youngster  at  School  More  Sedate  than  the 

Rest 409 

Ay,  Build  Her  Long  and  Narrow  and  Deep    .    .  227 
Backward,  Turn  Backward  O    Time,    in    your 

Flight 20 

Beautiful  Flowers  !    To  Me  Ye  Fresher  Seem    .  117 

Beautiful,  Sublime  and  Glorious 221 

Beautiful  was  the  Night.  Behind  the  Black  Wall 

of  the  Forest 167 

Before  Proud  Rome's  Imperial  Throne    .     .     .  432 

Before  Vespatian's  Regal  Throne 177 

Behold,    Fond  Man  ! 261 

Behold  !  I  Have  a  Weapon 431 

Be   Kind  to  Thy  Father,  for  when  Thou  wast 

Young 31 

(623) 


624 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


Page. 

Ben  Battle  was  a  Soldier  Bold 60 

Beneath  our  Consecrated  Elm       338 

Beneath  this  Verdant  Hillock  Lies 441 

Beside  the  Babe,  who  Sweetly  Slept 325 

Beside  the  Still  Waters  I    O  Infinite  Petce  !  .     .  384 

Beside  Yon  Straggling  Fence  that  Skirts  the  Way  261 

Between  Nose  and  Eyes  a  Strange  Contest  Arose  444 

Between  the  Dark  and  the  Daylight    ....  401 
Better  to  Smell  the  Violet  Cool,  than  Sip  the 

Glowing  Wine 263 

Beyond  the  White  and  Fading  Ships  whose  Sails  330 

Birds,  Joyous  Birds  of  the  Wandermg  Wing  !     .  388 

Bird-like  She's  up  at  Day-Dawn's  Blush    .     .    .  315 

Bird  of  the  Broad  and  Sweeping  Wing  .     .     .     .  130 

Bird  of  the  Wilderness 128 

Blest  as  the  Immortal  Gods  is  He 103 

Blest  Land  of  Judea !  Thrice  Hallowed  of  Song  .  356 

Blessings  on  Thee,  Little   Man 404 

Blissful  Dreams  Come  Stealing  o'er  Me     .     .     .  504 

Blossom  of  the  Almond  Trees 159 

Break,  Break,  Break 331 

Breathes  there  the  Man  with  Soul  so  Dead    .     .  243 

Bright  Flag  at  Yonder  Tapering  Mast  ....  29 

But  Look  !  o'er  the  Fall  see  the  Angler  Stand  .  310 

But  Where  to  Find  that  Happiest  Spot  Below    .  19 

By  Adversity  are  Wrought   ....         ...  329 

By  Nebo's  Lonely  Mountain 353 

By  the  Flow  of  the  Inland  River 247 

By  Sylvan  Waves  that  Westward  Flow  ....  68 

By  Your  Honor's  Command,  An  Example  I  Stand  442 

"Captain  Graham,"  the  Men  were  Sayin'    .     .  249 

Cease,  Rude  Boreas,  Blustering  Sailor !    .     .     .  236 

Child  of  the  Sun  !    Pursue  thy  Rapturous  Flight  .  127 

Child  of  the  Country  !    Free  as  Air 398 

Chisel  in  Hand,  Stood  a  Sculptor  Boy   ....  411 

Clear  and  Cool,  Clear  and  Cool 147 

Clear  the  Brown  Path  to  Meet  His  Coulter's 

Gleam ! 306 

Close  his  Eyes  ;  Work  is  Done  ! 337 

"  Come  a  Little  Nearer,  Doctor  " 212 

Come  Back  to  Erin,  Mavourneen,  Mavoumeen  .  522 

Come  as  Artist,  Come  as  Guest 351 

Come  Here,  Come  Here  and  Dwell 126 

Come,  Let  us  Plant  the  Apple-tree 160 

Come  on  Sir;  Here's  the  Place ;  Stand  Still !     .  141 

Come,  Patrick,  Clear  up  the  Storms  on  your  Brow  303 

Come,  see  the  Dolphin's  Anchor  Forged    .     .     .  205 

Come  Summer  Visitant,  Attach 125 

Come  Take  up  Your  Hats  and  Away  Let  us  Haste  443 

Come  to  Me,  O  my  Mother  !    Come  to  Me  !  .     .  26 

Come  to  These  Scenes  of  Peace 122 

Come  to  the  Sunset  Tree 312 

Come  to  the  River's  Reedy  Shore 312 

Consider  the  Sea's  Listless  Chime 220 

"  Corporal  Green  !"  The  Orderly  Cried    .     .     .  264 

Courage,  Brother  I  Do  Not  Stumble    ....  296 

Cromwell,  I  did  not  Think  to  Shed  a  Tear     .    .  350 


Page. 

Dare  to  Think,  Though  Others  Frown  ....  407 

Dark  Fell  the  Night,  the  Watch  was  Set    ...  209 

Darkness  was  Deepening  o'er  the  Sea    ....  228 

Dark  is  the  Night.  HowDark!  NoLight!  NoFire!  329 

Day,  in  Melting  Purple  Dying .  69 

Day  Stt  on  Norham's  Castled  Steep 154 

Day-stars !   that  Ope  Your  Eyes  with  Morn  to 

Twinkle 123 

Day  is  Dying !     FloSt,  O  Song 139 

Deaf,  Giddy,  Helpless,  Left  Alone 440 

Dear  Common  Flower,  that  Grow'st  Beside  the 

Way ■  117 

Dear  Friend,  Whose  Presence  in  the  House  .     -  370 

Deep  in  the  Wave  is  a  Coral  Grove 225 

"  Depend  Upon  Yourself  Alone  " 265 

Deserted  by  the  Waning  Moon 216 

Don't  Talk  to  me  of  Pretty  Maids 578 

Don't  You  Remembef  Sweet  Alice,  Ben  Bolt  .  79 
Doth  the   Bright  Sun  from  the  High  Arch  of 

Heaven 415 

Down  the  Glen,  Across  the  Mountain  ....  122 
Down  Swept  the  Chill  Wind  from  the  Mountain 

Peak 161 

Do  Your  Duty,  Little  Man 409 

Do  You  Ask  What  the  Birds  Say  ? 127 

Drawn  From  His  Refuge  in  Some  Lonely  Elm  .  129 

Drecker,  the  Draw-Bridge  Keeper,  Opened  Wide  178 

Drunk  and  Senseless  in  His  Place 176 

Earl  Gawain  Wooed  the  Lady  Barbara  ....  97 
Early  on  a  Sunny  Morning,  while  the  Lark  was 

Singing  Sweet 83 

Earth  is  the  Spirit's  Rayless  Cell 395 

Earth  with  its  Dark  and  Dreadful  Ills    ....  383 

Ever  Eating,  Never  Cloying 442 

Fair  Stood  the  Wind  for  Franc; 207 

Far  Away  from  the  Hillside,  the  Lake,  and  the 

Hamlet 349 

Farewell !  a  Word  that  Must  Be,  and  Hath  Been  322 

"  Farewell !  Farewell ! "  is  Often  Heard    .     .    .  322 

Fare  Thee  Well !  and  if  Forever loi 

First  Love  Will  With  the  Heart  Remain    ...  73 

Fit  Couch  of  Repose  for  a  Pilgrim  Like  Thee    .  156 

Flee  as  a  Bird  to  Your  Mountain 498 

Flow  on  Forever  in  Thy  Glorious  Robe  ....  148 
Flow  Gently,  Sweet  Afton,  Among  Thy  Green 

Braes 92 

Flower  of  the  Waste  !  the  Heath  Fowl  Shuns    .  1x8 

Flung  to  the  Heedless  Winds 369 

Fly  to  the  Desert,  Fly  with  Me 70 

Forever  the  Sun  is  Pouring  His  Gold     ....  388 

"Forget  Thee?"     If  to  Dream  by  Night   ...  85 

Forty  Little  Urchins 400 

Friend  After  Friend  Departs 286 

From  the  Desert  I  Come  to  Thee 74 

F'-om  Under   the    Boughs    in    the    Snow-Clad 

Wood 138 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


625 


Page. 
From  the  Weather- Worn  House  on  the  Brow  of 

the  Hill 317 

Full  Knee-Deep  Lies  the  Winter  Snow  ....  32.S 

Gallants,  Attend  and  Hear  a  Friend      ....  473 

Gamarro  is  a  Dainty  Steed 133 

Gayest  Songster  of  the  Spring 127 

Gay,  Guiltless  Pair 166 

Gems  of  the  Changing  Autumn,  How  Beautiful 

Ye  Are ! 124 

Genteel  in  Personage 94 

Gentlest  Girl >   .    .     .     .  75 

Giana !  My  Giana  !  we  will  have 428 

Gin  a  Body  Meet  a  Body •    .     .  41 

Give  Me  Three  Grains  of  Corn,  Mother     .     .     .  268 

God  Made  the  Country,  and  Man  Made  the  Town  314 

God  Makes  Sech  Nights,  All  White  and  Still  .     .  86 

God  of  the  Earth's  Extended  Plains  !     .     .     .     .  152 

God's  Love  and  Peace  be  With  You,  Where  .     .  89 

Go  Feel  What  I  Have  Felt 300 

Go  Forth  to  the  Battle  of  Life,  My  Boy       .     .     .  410 

Go,  Patter  to  Lubbers  and  Swabs,  Do  Ye  See    .  235 

Go  Where  Glory  Waits  Thee 320 

Going — the  Great  Round  Sun 392 

Golden-Hair  Climbed  up  on  Grandpapa's  Knee.  402 

Good-Bye,  Old  House  ;  the  Plurry  and  Bustle    .  35 

Good  Bye,  Proud  World  !  I'm  Going  Home  .     .  288 

Good  Morrow  to  Thy  Sable  Beak 166 

Good  Night 302 

Good-Night,  Good-Night ;  Parting  is  Such  Sweet 

Sorrow 322 

Good  Name,  in  Man  or  Woman,  Dear  My  Lord .  429 

Good  People  All,  of  Every  Sort 445 

Good  Wife,  What  are  You  Singing  For?    You 

Know  We've  Lost  the  Hay 379 

Great  Ocean  !  Strongest  of  Creation's  Sons    .     .  219 

Green  Be  the  Turf  Above  Thee 90 

Had  I  a  Heart  for  Falsehood  Framed    ....  68 

Hail  Columbia,  Happy  Land 243 

Hail !  Mildly  pleasing  Solitude 156 

Hail  !   Holy  Love,  Thou  Word  That  Sums  All 

Bliss 67 

Hail  to  Thee,  Blithe  Spirit .  157 

Half  an  Hour  'Till  Train  Time,  Sir 74 

Hamelin  Town's  in  Brunswick 55 

Happy  the  Man  whose  Wish  and  Care   ....  312 

Harness  Me  Down  With  Your  Iron  Bands      .     .  301 

Harp  of  Memnon  !  Sweetly  Strung 206 

Haunts  of  My  Youth 124 

Have  You  Ever  Thought  of  the  Weight  of  a 

Word 259 

Have  You  Heard  of  the  Wonderful  One-Hoss 

Shay 62 

Heap  on  More  Wood  !  the  Wind  is  Chill    ...  28 

Hear  the  Sledges  with  the  Bells 447 

Heaven  Hath  its  Crown  of  Stars 65 

Heaven's  Verge  Extreme 195 

40 


Page. 
Heaven  From  All  Creatures  Hides  the  Book  of 

Fate       292 

Heaven  is  not  Gained  at  a  Single  Bound    .     .     .  394 

He  Called  His  Friend,  and  Prefaced  with  a  Sigh  240 

He  Did  Keep 323 

He  Was  Little  More  Than  a  Baby 320 

He  Was  of  Tiiat  Stubborn  Crew 377 

He  Woos  Me  With  Those  Honeyed  Words    .     .  90 

He's  a  Rare  Man 214 

He's  not  the  Happy  Man  to  Whom  is  Givtn   .     .  28 

"  Help  one  Another  !  "  the  Snow-flakes  Said  .  400 
Her  Hair  was  Tawny  with  Gold,  Her  Eyes  with 

Purple  wsre  Dark 194 

Here  From  the  Brow  of  the  Hill  I  Look     .     .     .  309 

Here  Lies  Fast  Asleep — Awake  Me  Who  Can    .  440 

Here  Unmolested,  Through  Whatever  Sign    .     .  319 

Here's  a  Big  Washing  to  be  Done 438 

High  Overhead   the  Stripe-Winged  Nighthawk 

Soars 12S 

His  Learning  Such,  no  Author,  Old  or  New  .     .  346 

His  Mind  a  Maxim,  Plain,  Yet  Keenly  Shrewd    .  341 

His  Puissant  Sword  Unto  His  Side 189 

Ho !  Brothers,  Come  Hither  and  List  to  My  Story  354 

Ho,  Sailor  of  the  Sea 216 

Home  They  Brought  Her  Warrior  Dead    .     .     .  258 

Household  Treasures — Household  Treasures  .  32 
How  Blest  Has  My  Time  Been — What  Joys  Have 

I  Known 31 

How  e'er  It  Be,  It  Seems  to  Me 256 

How  Desolate  Were  Nature,  and  How  Void  .     .  167 

How  Does  The  Water 146 

How  Fair  is  the  Rose  !  That  Beautiful  Flower  .  119 
How  Fine  Has  the  Day  Been,  How  Bright  Was 

the  Sun 383 

How  Lovely  is  This  Wildered  Scene      ....  145 

How  Many  Summers,  Love? 26 

How  Much  the   Heart  May  Bear  and  Yet  Not 

Break 299 

How  Slow  Yon  Tiny  Vessel  Ploughs  the  Main    .  251 

How  Sweet  it  Were,  if  Without  Feeble  Fright    .  263 

How  Sweet  Thy  Modest  Light  to  View  ....  144 

How  Withered,  Perished,  Seems  the  Form  .  .  121 
Hung  on  the  Casement  (That  Looked  O'er  the 

Main) 157 

"lama  Pebble  and  Yield  To  None"     ....  45 

I  am  so  Homesick  in  this  Summer  Weather  .     .  34 

I  Bring  Fresh  Showers  for  the  Thirsting  Flowers  12 1 

I  Came,  but  they  had  Passed  Away 365 

"I  Cannot  do  Much,"  said  a  Little  Star  .  .  .  408 
I  Cannot  Sing  the  Old  Songs  I  Sung  Long  Years 

Ago 502 

I  Come  from  Haunts  of  Coot  and  Hern      .     .     .  150 

I  Fain  a  Tender  Word  Would  Tell  Thee    .     .     .  572 

I  Feel  a  Newer  Life  in  Every  Gale 116 

If  all  the  World  and  Love  were  Young  ....  102 

If  Ever  There  Lived  a  Yankee  Lad 475 

If  I  Had  Known,  Oh,  Loyal  Heart 81 


626 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


Page. 

If  I  Profane  With  My  Unworthy  Hand  ....  82 

If  I  Should  Die  To-night 263 

If  I  Shall  ever  win  the  Home  in  Heaven     .     .     .  3S7 

If  I  Were  Told  That  I  must  Die  To-morrow  .     .  3S3 

If  Solid  Happiness  We  Prize 30 

If  Still  They  Kept  Their  Earthly  Place  ....  88 

If  Stores  of  Dry  and  Learned  Lore  We  Gain      .  91 

If  Thou  Wast  by  my  Side,  my  Love 17 

If  You  cannot  on  the  Ocean       304 

I  Grew  Assured  Before  I  Asked 84 

I  Have  Fancied  Sometimes  the  Bethlehem  Beam  450 

I  Have  Had  Playmates,  I  Have  Had  Companions  31 
I  Have  Seen  a  Curious  Child,  who  Dwelt  upon  a 

Tract 225 

I   Heard  the   Bob-white  Wliistle   in  the  Dewy 

Breath  of  Morn 109 

I  Knew  by  the  Smoke  that  so  Gracefully  Curled  27 

I  Know  not  if  the  Dark  or  Bright 385 

I  Know  not  what  Awaits  me 380 

I  Leaned  Out  of  Window,   I  Smelt  the  White 

Clover 84 

I  Like  That  Ring— That  Ancient  Ring  ....  76 

I  Live  for  those  who  Love  me 281 

I  Love  Contemplating — Apart 235 

I  Love  It,  I  Love  It ;  and  Who  Shall  Dare     .     .  33 

I  Love,  I  Love  to  See 315 

I  Love  the  Beautiful  Evening 313 

I  Love  to  Hear  thine  Earnest  Voice 127 

I  Love  to  Look  on  a  Scene  Like  This    ....  398 

I  Love  to  see  the  Little  Goldfinch  Pluck    .     .     .  4'".6 

I'll  Tell  You  a  Story  That's  Not  in  Tom  Moore  .  463 

Pm  a  Broken-hearted  Deutscher 435 

I'm  a  Merry  Gypsy  Maid       576 

I'm  Called  Little  Buttercup 5S6 

I'm  in  Love  with  You,  Baby  Louise 402 

I'm  Sitdng  on  the  Stile,  Mary 72 

I'm  Standing  by  the  Window-sill 21 

I  r»Iust  Not  Say  That  Thou  Wert  True  ....  71 

I  Must  Tell  You  a  Little  Story 411 

In  all  Places,  then,  and  in  all  Seasons     ....  117 

In  Ancient  daj's  as  tlie  Old  Stories  Run      .     .     .  259 

In  Broad  Street  Buildings  (On  a  Winter  Night)  .  437 

In  Days  of  Old,  When  Knights  Were  Bold  .  .  486 
In  January,  when  down  the  Dairy  the  Cream  and 

Clabber  Freeze 137 

In  Sailing  Along  the  River  of  Life 556 

In  Slumbers  of  Midnight  tlie  Sailor  Boy  Lay  .     .  217 

In  Summer,  When  the  Days  Were  Long    ...  84 

In  tlie  Barn  the  Tenant  Cock 138 

In  the  Church-Yard,  up  in  the  old  High  Town  .  273 
In  the  Gloaming,  Oh,  My  Darling!  When  the 

Lights  are  Dim  and  Low 516 

In  the  North  Sea  Lived  a  Whale 506 

In  the  Summer  Twilight 43 

In  the  Tempest  of  Life,  when  the  Wave  and  the 

Gale     .     .  -  i 285 

In  the  World  I've  Gained  My  Knowledge       .     .  514 

In  these  Flowery  Meads  would  be 153 


Pa?e. 
Invidious  Grave!  HowDostThou  Rend  in  Sunder  71 
In  Vain  the  Cords  and  Axes  were  Prepared     .     .  223 
In  Watherford,   Wanst,    Lived    Professor  Mac- 
Shane    437 

In  Youth  Exalted  High  in  Air 441 

Into  a  Ward  of  Whitewashed  Halls 271 

Into  the  Sunshine 148 

I  Prayed  for  Riches,  and  Achieved  Success    .     .  385 

I  Remember,  I  Remember 30 

I  sat  at  Work  one  Summer  Day 334 

I  Siiled  from  the  Downs  in  the  Nancy    ....  227 

I  Sit  by  the  open  Window 318 

I  saw  Him  once  Before 262 

I  Slept  and  Dreamed  that  Life  was  Beauty     .     .  301 

I  Shall  Leave  the  Old  House  in  the  Autumn  .     .  25 

I  Stood  on  the  Bridge  at  Midni'iht 293 

I  Sprang  to  the  Stirrup,  and  Joris  and  He  ...  67 

I  Tell  you,  Kate,  that  Lovejoy  Cow 309 

Is  it  Anybody's  Business ,     .     .     .  466 

Is  Tliis  a  Dagger  Which  I  See  Before  Me  .     .     .  427 

It  Blew  a  Hard  Storm,  and  in  Utmost  Confusion  440 

It  Chanceth  once  to  every  Soul 323 

It  is  a  Beauteous  Evening,  Calm  and  Free      .     .  222 

It  i ;  an  Ancient  Mariner 229 

It  is  Only  in  Legend  and  Fable 404 

It  is  the  Cause,  it  is  the  Cause,  my  Soul      .     .     .  430 

It  is  the  Miller's  Daughter loi 

It  is  the  Midnight  hour  : — The  Beauteous  Sea     .  162 

It  Must  Be 355 

It  Must  be  so — Plato,  Thou  Reason'st  Well     .     .  425 

"  It's  only  a  Little  Grave,"  they  Said    ....  325 

It's  Patrick  Dolin,  Mj'self  and  no  Other      .     .     ,  465 

It's  Use  that  Constitutes  Possession  Wiiolly   .     .  59 

It  Stands  in  a  Sunny  Meadow 23 

"  It  Snows  ! "  cries  the  School-boy — "  Hurrah  !  " 

and  his  Shout 136 

It  was  a  Summer  Evening 50 

It  was  Many  and  Many  a  Year  Ago 66 

It  was  a  Time  of  Sadness  and  my  Heart     .     .     .  374 

It  was  Fifty  Years  Ago 349 

It  was  Not  in  the  Winter 80 

It  was  Six  Men  of  Indostan 438 

It  was  upon  an  April  Morn 187 

It  was  tha  Schooner  Hesperus 50 

I  Wandered  by  the  Brook-side 149 

I  Wandered  Lonely  as  a  Cloud 123 

I  Want  You  to  Take  a  Picter  o'  Me  and  My  Old 

Woman  Here 32 

I  was  Born  Free  as  a  Caesar  ;  so  Were  You    .     .  431 
I  was  Walking  in  Savannah,  past  a  Church  Decayed 

and  Dim 272 

I  will  go  Back  to  the  Great  Sweet  Mother    .     .     .  223 

"  I  Would  if  I  could,"  Though  Much  its  in  Use  .  408 

I  Wrote  My  Name  Upon  the  Sand 390 

I've  Just  Come  in  From  the    Meadow,   Wife.  453 

I've  Traveled  About  a  Bit  in  My  Time  ....  500 
I've  Worked  in  the  Field  All  Day,  a  Plowin'  the 

'' Stony  Streak  " 444 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


627 


Page. 

John  Anderson,  My  Jo,  John 25 

John  Gilpin  Was  a  Citizen ,     .  169 

Just  in  the  Dubious  Point,  Where  With  the  Pool  309 

King  Bruce  of  Scotland  Flung  Himself  Down    .  406 

Kneeling,  Fair  in  the  Twilight  Gray 22 

Know  Ye  the  Land  Wliere  the  Cypress  and  Myrtle  355 
Knowe?t  Thou  the  Land  Which  Lovers  Oughi  to 

Choose ,    .    .    .    .  356 

Knows  He  That  Never  Took  a  Pinch     .    .    .    •  470 

Lady  !  I  Will  Not  Forget  My  Trust 70 

Land  of  My  Fathers  !  Though  No  Mangrove  Here  250 

Land  of  the  Brave  !  Where  Lie  Inurned      .    .    .  357 

Lead,  Kindly  Light,  Amid  the  Encircling  Gloom  382 

Leaves  Have  Their  Time  to  Fall 377 

Let  Me  Sit  Down  a  Moment •    .    .  6r 

Lest  Men  Suspect  Your  Tale  Untrue 40 

Let  Fame  to  the  World  Sound  America's  Voice  .  341 

Like  a  Ball  That  Bounds 329 


156 
310 
383 

36 
124 

61 


Like  Fragments  of  an  Uncompleted  World    ,     . 

Like  Some  Vision  Olden •     .    . 

Lily  Bells  !  Lily  Bells  !  Swinging  and  Ringing    . 
Linger  Not  Long.    Home  is  Not  Home  Without 

Thee 

Lithe  and  Long  as  the  Serpent  Train      .... 
Little  Golden-Hair  was  Watching  in  the  Window 

Broad  and  High 

Little  Gretchen,  Little  Gretchen,  Wanders   Up 

and  Down  the  Street 323 

Little  Nan  Gordon 412 

Little  Rills  Make  Wider  Streamlets 48 

Little  Streams  are  Light  and  Shallow 150 

Lo!  Where  the  Rosy-Bosomed  Hours    ....  113 

Long  Years  Ago  I  Wandt  red  Here 143 

Look  On  These  Waters,  With  How  Soft  a  Kiss  .  138 

Look  Off,  Dear  Love,  Across  the  Sallow  Sands  .  94 
Look  Round  Our  World,  Behold  the  Chain  of 

Love 125 

Loose  Every  Sail  to  the  Breeze •  67 

Loud  Roared  the  Dreaded  Thunder       ....  220 

Love  is  the  Root  of  Creation  ;  God's  Essence      .  74 

Madam,  There  is  a  Lady  in  Your  Hall    ....  415 

Maid  of  Athens,  Ere  We  Part 73 

Magnificence  of  Ruin  !  What  Has  Time    .     .     .  175 

"  Make  Way  for  Liberty  !"  He  Cried     ....  250 

"Man  Wants  but  Little  Here  Below" 278 

Many  a  Green  Isle  Needs  Must  Be 164 

Many  a  Long,  Long  Year  Ago 39 

Maud  Muller.  On  a  Summer's  Day 46 

Men,  Dying,  Make  Their  Wills,  but  Wives  ...  263 

Men  Have  Done  Brave  Deeds     . 215 

Merrily  Swinging  On  Brier  and  Weed    ....  1 26 
Mid   Pleasures  and  Palaces    Though  We  May 

Roam 17 

Midnight,  Passed  !     Not  a  Sound  of  Aught      .    .  286 

Mine  Be  a  Cot  Beside  the  Hill 27 


Page. 
Mine  Eyes  Have  Seen  the  Glory  of  the  Coming 

of  the  Lord , 249 

Mister  Socrates  Snooks,  a  Lord  of  Creation    .    .  479 

Moan,  Moan,  Ye  Dying  Gal-es 331 

Moon  of  Harvest,  Herald  Mild 302 

Most  Potent,  Grave,  and  Reverend  Signiors    .     •  70 

Mount  of  the  Clouds,  on  Wiiose  Olympian  Height  155 

Mournfully!  O,  Mournfully 117 

Mrs.  Lofty  Keeps  a  Carriage  ...'..     .    .  437 

My  Babe  !  My  Tiny  Babe  I  My  Only  Babe  !     .    .  2S7 

My  Boat  is  On  the  Shore 337 

My  Early  Love,  and  Must  We  Part 323 

My  Girl  Hath  Violet  Eyes  and  Yellow  Hair    .     .  99 

My  Heart  Leaps  Up  When  I  Behold  ....  124 
My  Heart's  In  the  Highlands,  My  Heart  is  Not 

Here 314 

My  Jesus,  As  Thou  Wilt 367 

My  Lord  Tomnoddy  Got  Up  One  Day     ....  473 

My  Mind  to  Me  a  Kingdom  Is 2G9 

My  Mother,  When  I  Learned  That  Thou  Wast 

Dead 28 

My  Name  is  Norval ;  On  the  Grampian  Hill  .     .  182 

My  Son,  Tiiou  Wilt  Dream  the  World  is  Fair  .    .  29 

My  Sheep  I  Neglected ;  I  Broke  My  Sheep  Hook  79 

My  Time,  O  Ye  Muses,  Was  Happily  Spent    .     .  308 

Nature  is  Made  Better  By  No  Mean 275 

Needy  Knife-grinder!  Whither  are  You  Going?  442 

Neglected  Now  the  Early  Dai.^y  Lies     ....  303 

Never  Any  More 69 

Never  Wedding,  Ever  Wooing 91 

Nigh  to  a  Grave  that  was  Newly  Made  ....  322 
Night  Wind,   Whispering  Wind,    Wind  of  the 

Carib  Sea 254 

No  Baby  in  the  House,  I  Know 39S 

Noble  the  Mountain  Stream 15  c 

No,  Children,  My  Trips  Are  Over 172 

No  Jeweled  Beauty  is  My  Love 80 

No  More,  My  Sister;  Urge  Me  Not  Again  .     .     .  415 

No  Stir  in  the  Air,  No  Stir  in  the  Sea     .     .     .     .  22\ 


-No  Moon ! 133 


No  Sun- 

Nor  Rural  Sights  Alone,  but  Rural  S  rands     .     .  311 

Not  a  Drum  was  Heard,  not  a  Funeral  Note  .     .  337 

Not  in  the  Laughing  Bowers 332 

Not,  My  Soul,  What  Thou  Hast  Done  ....  389 

Not  Ours  the  Vows  of  Such  as  Plight     ....  67 

Not  What  the  Chemists  Say  They  Be     ...     .  79 

Nothing  is  Lost :  the  Drop  of  Dew 38S 

November  Chill  Blaws  Loud  wi'  Angry  Sugh      .  18 

Now  Departs  Day's  Gairish  Light 143 

Now  Glory  to  the  Lord  of  Hosts,  Frora  Whom 

All  Glories  Are 177 

Now,  if  I  Fall,  Will  it  Be  My  Lot 267 

Now,  I's  Got  a  Notion  in  My  Head  Dat  When 

You  Come  to  Die 257 

Now  Let  Me  Sit  Beneath  the  Whitening  Thorn  .  115 

Now  the  Bright  Morning  Stir.  Day's  Harbinger  135 

Now,  Upon  Syria's  Land  of  Roses 155 


/ 


628 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


'  Page. 

Och,  Girls  Dear,  did  you  ever  Hear 568 

O'er  Judah's  Land  thy  Thunders  Broke,  O  Lord  90 

Of  all  Men  Saving  Sylla  the  Man-Slayer    .     .     .  351 

Of  all  the  Girls  that  are  so  Smart 78 

Of  all  the  Wives  as  e'er  you  Know ^  564 

Of  Nelson  and  the  North 194 

Oft  Have  I  Walked  these  Woodland  Paths     .     .  157 

Oft  in  the  Stilly  Night 38 

Oh,  A  Dainty  Plant  is  the  Ivy  Green      ....  118 

Oh  !  A  Wonderful  Stream  is  the  River  of  Time  .  264 

Oh  !  Ask  not  a  Home  in  the  Mansions  of  Pride  .  32 

Oh  !  Do  not  Stand  so  Long  Outside 549 

Oh  !  Give  me  Dack  that  Royal  Dream  ....  251 

Oh  !  Hadst  Thou  Never  Shared  My  Fate   ...  72 

O-hoi  ye  ho,  Ilo-ye-ho,  Who's  for  the  Ferry    .     .  558 

Oh  !  I  Shall  Not  Forget  until  Memory  Depart  .  226 
Oh,  I  Thought  Her  so  Pretty  and  Called  Her  My 

Own 93 

Oh  !  Mona's  Waters  are  Blue  and  Bright    ...  49 

Oh,  my  Golden  Days  of  Childhood 396 

Oh,  my  Love  Stood  Under  a  Walnut  Tree      .     .  51S 

Oh  !  Tell  Me  Not  of  Lofty  Fate 94 

Oh  Tell  me  One  Thing,  Tell  me  Truly  ....  510 

Oh  !  What  is  that  Radiant  Glory 544 

Oh  !  Why  Should  the  Spirit  of  Mortal  be  Proud  .  258 

Old  Birch,  who  Taught  the  Village  School      .     .  479 

Old  Grimes  is  Dead,  That  Good  Old  Man       .     .  53 

Old  Ironsides  at  Anchor  Lay 173 

Old  Man,  God  Bless  You  !  Does  Your  Pipe  Taste 

Sweetly 186 

Old  Reuben  Fisher,  Who  Lived  in  the  Lane    .     .  363 

Old  Tribal  Cain  was  a  Man  of  Might      ....  304 

On  all  thy  Trees,  on  every  Bough 134 

On  Alphine  Heights  the  Love  of  God  is  Shed    .  145 

On  Leven's  Banks,  while  Free  to  Rove     ....  149 

On  Parent's  Knee,  a  Naked,  New-born  Child      .  401 

On  Richmond  Hill  There  Lives  a  Lass  ....  93 

On  the  Cross-beam  under  the  0!d  South  Bell      .  130 

On  the  Deep  is  the  Mariner's  Danger    ....  216 

On  the  Wall  of  Brick  and  Plaster 407 

Once  in  a  City's  Crowded  Street 299 

Once  upon  a  Midnight  Dreary 279 

One  Kind  Wish  Before  We  Part 75 

One  More  Unfortunate 321 

One  Night  Came  on  a  Hurricane 223 

One  Sweetly  Solemn  Thought 373 

On  thy  Fair  Bosom,  Silver  Lake 146 

One  Time  my  Soul  was  Pierced  as  with  a  Sword  276 

One  Year  ago — a  Ringing  Voice 330 

Only  Waiting  till  the  Shadows 277 

O  Blithe  New-Comer  !  I  have  Heard 128 

O  Do  Not  Wanton  With  Those  Eyes     ....  102 

O  Don't  be  Sorrowful,  Darling 372 

O  Fairest  of  Creation,  Last  and  Best 27 

O,   Fruit  Loved  by  Boyhood  1    the  Old  Days 

Recalling 145 

O  Gentle,  Gentle  Summer  Rain 149 

O,  Go  Not  Yet,  My  Love ,  1 10 


Page. 

O  God  !  Though  Sorrow  be  my  Fate    ....  368 

O,  Is  Not  This  a  Holy  Spot 244 

O  Good  lago 430 

O  Lady,  Leave  Thy  Silken  Thread 43 

O  Lay  Thy  Hand  in  Mine,  Dear 25 

O  LittleFiset ;  That  Such  Long  Years   ....  401 

O  Mary,  Go  and  Call  the  Cattle  Home  ....  48 

O  More  or  Less  than  Man — in  High  or  Low    .    .  346 

O  Mother  Dear,  Jerusalem 395 

O,  Never  Sit  Me  Down,  and  Say 255 

O  Nightingale,  Best  Poet  of  the  Grove    ....  132 

O  RevereT;d  Sir,  I  do  Declare 472 

O  Rosamond,  Thou  Fair  and  Good 402 

O  Sacred  Head,  Now  Wounded 375 

O,  Sad  are  They  Who  Know  not  Love  ...  93 

O,  Say,  can  you  see,  by  the  Dawn's  early  Light  .  241 

O  Sextant  of  the  Meeting-house  Which  Sweeps  472 

O,  Sing  Unto  My  Roundelay 68 

O  Stream  Descendmg  to  the  Sea 34 

O  Talk  Not  to  Me  of  a  Name  Great  in  Story  .     .  78 

O  Terribly  ProUd  was  Miss  MacBride      ....  471 

O,  That  Last  day  in  Lucknow  Fort 183 

O  the   Charge  at  Balaklava  ! 1S5 

O,  the  Days  are  Gone,  When  Beauty  Brij  ht  .     ,  73 

O  then,  I  see,  Queen  Mab  hath  been  with  you     .  428 

O,  Think'st  Thou  we  shall  ever  Meet  again    .     .  323 

O  Those  Little,  Those  Little  Blue  Shoes    .     .    .  403 

O  Thou,  wha  in  the  Heavens  Dost  Dwell   .     .     .  455 

O  Thou  V.ast  Ocean  !  Ever  Sounding  Sea  .     .     .  224 

O  Throat !  O  Trembhng  Throat ! 128 

O  what  is  that  Comes  Gliding  in 468 

O  When  it  is  Summej-  Weather 112 

O,  Wherefore  Come  Ye  Fortli,  in  Triumph  from 

the  North 192 

O  Whiiher  Sail  You,  Sir  John  Franklin     .     .     .  338 

O  Winter  !  Wilt  Thou  Never,  Never  Go  ?  .     .     .  166 

O  yet  we  Trust  that  Somehow  Good      ....  385 

O  Young  Lochnivar  is  Come  Out  of  the  West    .  38 

Open  thy  Lattice,  O  Lady  Bright 459 

Our  Boat  to  the  Waves  go  Free 218 

Our  Good  Steeds  Snuff  the  Evening  Air    .     .     .  185 

Our  Native  Land,  Our  Native  Vale 257 

Our  Table  is  Spread  for  Two,  To-night ....  35 

Outof  the  Bosom  of  the  Air 137 

Out  of  the  Clover  and  Blue-Eyed  Grass  .  ,  .  313 
Over  the  Hill  to  the  Poor  house  I'm  Trudgin'  my 

Weary  Way 42 

Over  the  Hills  to  the  Poor-house  Sad  Paths  Have 

Been  Made  To-day 48 

Over  the  Hills  the  Farm-boy  Goes 316 

Over  the  Mountains 78 

Over  the  River  They  Beckon  to  Me 368 

Oxcoose  me  if  I  Shed  Some  Tears 464 

Pain's  Furnace-heat  Within  Me  Quivers     .    .    .  387 

Patter-Patter — 133 

Paul  Venarez  Heard  Them  Say,  in  the  Frontier 

Town,  that  Day 182 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


G29 


Page. 

Pauline,  by  Pride 284 

Pause  not 'to  Dream  of  the  Future  Before  Us      .  296 

Peace  Dwells  Not  There — This  Rugged  Face     .  346 

Pillars  are  Fallen  at  Thy  Feet 348 

Pipe,  Little  Minstrels  of  the  Waning  Year      .     .  137 

Piping  Down  the  Valleys  Wild • .  403 

"Praise  God  From  Whom  All  Blessings  Flow  "  .  300 

Pretty  Firstling  of  the  Year 136 

Prop  yer  Eyes  Wide  Opt  n,  Joey 447 

Pull,  Pull!  And  the  Pail  is  Full      ......  83 

Rattle  the  Window,  Winds  ! 272 

Rest  for  the  Weary,  Rest 508 

Restless  forms  of  Living  Light 218 

Ring  Out,  Wild  Bells,  to  the  Wild  Sky  ....  298 

"  Rock  of  Ages,  Cleft  For  Me  " 369 

Roll  On,  Thou  Ball,  Roll  On 457 

Said  Nester  to  his  Pretty  Wife,  Quite  Sorrowfijl 

One  Day 456 

Say,  Mighty  Love,  and  Teach  My  Song     ...  88 

Say,  Watchman,  What  of  the  Night  ?     .    .    .     .  373 

Say,  Ye  that  Know,  Ye  who  have  Felt  and  Seen  131 

Scents  that  are  Brightest 496 

Scots,  Wha  Hae  Wi'  Wallace  Bled 193 

She  Dwelt  Among  the  Untrodden  Ways    ...  79 

See,  Here's  a   Bower 422 

See  Yon  Robin  on  the  Spray 132 

She  is  a  Winsome  Wee  Thing 26 

She  Rose  from  her  Delicious  Sleep      ....  389 

She  Shrat.k  from  All,  and  her  Silent  Mood    .     .  331 

She  Stood  Breast  High  Amid  the  Com    .     .     .  311 

She  Stood  Alone  Amidst  the  April  Fields     .     .  113 

Should  Auld  Acquaintance  Be  Forgot  ....  38 

Should  Fate  Command  Me  to  the  Farthest  Verge  155 

Sing  Them  Upon  the  Sunny  Hills 307 

Six  Skeins  and  Three,  Six  Skeins  and  Three    .  102 
Slowly  England's  Sun  was  Setting  o'er  the  Hill- 
tops Far  Away •  58 

Softly  Woo  Away  Her  Breath 369 

Soft  You ;  a  Word  or  Two  Before  You  Go    .     .  431 

Somebody's  Courting  Somebody 94 

Some  Murmur  When  Their  Sky  is  Clear    .    .     .  376 

Some  People  You've  Met  in  Your  Time  no  doubt  536 

Some  Reckon  Thtir  Age  by  Years 271 

Somewhere  on  ll:is  Earthly  Planet 288 

So  Sweetly  She  Bade  Me  "Adieu" 322 

So  Sweet,  the  Ru^es  in  their  Blowing  ....  114 

So  Youv'e  Brought  Me  This  Costly  Bible    .     .  384 

Source  of  My  Life's  Refreshing  Springs.     .     .     .  367 

Speak  no  evil,  and  Cause  no  Ache 383 

Spinning,  Spinning,  by  the  Sea 239 

Spring,  with  that  Nameless  Pathos  in  the  Air     .  162 

Stand  I  t!ie  Ground's  Your  Own,  My  Braves  1     .  244 

"Stand  to  Your  Guns,  Men  !  "   Morris  Cried      .  179 

St.  Agnes'  Eve — Ah,  Bitter  Chill  it  Was     .•    .     .  104 
Steer  On,  Bold  Sailor  ;  Wit  May  Mock  Thy  Soul 

that  .Sees  the  Land 181 


Stop  !  for  thy  Tread  is  on  an  Empire's  Dust .     .  44 

Stop,  Mortal  !   Here  thy  Brother  Lies    ....  345 

Sweet  and  Low,  Sweet  and  Low 95 

Sweet  Auburn  !  Loveliest  Village  of  the  Plain  .  288 

Sweet  is  the  Pleasure 301 

Sweet  Jenny,  I  Write  On  My  Knee 458 

Sweetheart,  Good-bye,  That  Fluttering  Sail  .     .  94 

Sweet  Poet  of  the  Woods,  a  Long  Adieu  .     .     .  127 

Sweet  Wind,  Fair  Wind,  Where  Have  You  Been  ?  295 

Take  Back  into  thy  Bosom,  Earth 353 

Take  Back  the  Heart  that  Thou  Gavest     .    .     .  524 

Talking  of  Sects  Till  Late  One  Eve 378 

Tears,  Idle  Tears,  I  know  not  what  they  Mean    .  331 
Tell  Him,  for  Years  I  Never  Nursed  a  Thought  67 
Tell  Me,  Ye  Winged  Winds,  that  round  my  Path- 
way Roar 261 

Tell  Me  Not,  in  Mournful  Numbers 256 

That  Handkerchief 429 

That  is  not  Home,  Where  Day  by  Day  ....  18 
That  Which  Hath  Made  Them  Drunk  Hath  Made 

Me  Bold 426 

That's  Right— You  are  Collected  and  Direct  .     .  422 
The    Angry    Word    Suppressed,   the  Taunting 

Thought 23 

The  Autumn  is  Old 134 

The  Bard  Has  Sung,  God  Never  Formed  a  Soul  75 

The  Birds  Must  Know.     Who  Wisely  Sings    .     .  454 

The  Birds,  when  Winter  Shades  the  Sky   ...  74 

The  Breaking  Waves  Dashed  High 248 

The  Bright  Stars  fade.  The  Morn  is  Breaking     .  530 

The  Brown  Old  Earth  Lies  Quiet  and  Still     .     .  391 

The  Castle  Clock  Had  Toll'd  Midnight      ...  39 

The  Castled  Crag  of  Drachenfels 147 

The  Cock  Has  Crowed.  I  Hearthe  Doors  Unbarred  163 

The  Cold  Winds  Swept  the  Mountain  Height     .  168 
The  Cottage  was  a  Thatched  One,  its  Outside  Old 

and  Mean 272 

The  Cricket  Chirps  All  Day 134 

The  Crimson  Tide  was  Ebbing, and  the  Pulse  grew 

weak  and  Faint 329 

The  Curfew  Tolls  the  Knell  of  Parting  Day    .     .  254 

The  Daisies  Peep  from  every  Field 120 

The  Dark  Knight  of  the  Forest 419 

The  Daughter  Sits  in  the  Parlor 451 

The  Dearest  Spot  of  Earth  to  Me 21 

The  Dew  was  Falling  Fast;  the  Stars  Began  to 

Blink 410 

The  Dreamy  Rhymer's  Measured  Snore    .     .     .  350 

The  Dusky  Night  Rides  Down  the  Sky      ...  45 

The  Eastern  sky  is  Blushing  Red 300 

The  Element  of  Beauty  which  in  thee    ....  342 

The  Fanner  came  in  from  the  Field  one  Day     .  311 

The  Farmer  Sat  in  His  Easy  Chair 26 

The  Feathered  Songster  Chanticleer      ....  201 

The  Fire-flies  Freckle  Every  Spot 141 

The  Flag  of  Freedom  floats  once  more      .     .     .  355 

The  Floods  Are  Raging,  and  the  Gales  Blow  H  igh  228 


630 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


Page. 

The  Fountains  Mingle  with  the  River    ....  80 

The  Garlands  Fade  that  Spring  so  Lately  Wove  125 

The  Grass  is  Green  on  Bunker  Hill 244 

The  Gray  Sea,  and  the  Long  Black  Land  ...  85 
The  Groves  were  God's    First  Temples.    Ere 

Man  Learned 113 

The  Heart  bow'd  down  by  Weight  of  Woe    .     .  550 

The  Heath  This  Night  Must  Be  My  Bed      ...  109 

The  Hollow  Winds  Begin  to  Blow 152 

The  Huge,  Rough  Stones  From  Out  the  Mine    .  389 

The  Isles  of  Greece,  the  Isles  of  Greece     .     .     .  359 

The  Journals  This  Morning  are  Full  of  a  Tale  175 

The  King  Was  on  his  Throne 37 

The  Kiss  of  Friendship,  Kind  and  Calm     ...  21 

The  Lady  Jane  was  Tall  and  Slim 460 

The  Lark  Sings  for  Joy  in  her  own  Loved  Land  129 

The  Latter  Rain — it  Falls  in  Anxious  Haste  .  .  150 
The  Lion  is  the  Desert's  King  ;  Through    His 

Domain  so  Wide 131 

The  Lovely  Purple  of  the  Moon's  Bestowing .     .  238 

The  Mackerel  Boats  Sailed  Slowly  Out  ....  224 

The  Maiden  Sat  at  her  Busy  Wheel 92 

The  Melancholy  Days  Are  Come,  the  Saddest  of 

tlie  Year 135 

The  Mellow  Year  is  Hastening  to  its  Close     .     .  135 

The  Minister  Said  Last  Night,  Says  He      .     .     .  379 

The  Mistletoe  Hung  in  the  Castle  Hall  ....  432 

The  Moon  on  tlie  East  oriel  Shone 358 

The  Moon  Was  A-waning 142 

The  Mountain  and  the  Squirrel 397 

The  Muffled  Drum's  Sad  Roll  has  Beat      ...  252 

The  Nautilus  and  the  Ammonite 394 

The  Night  Was  Made  for  Cooling  Shade  .  .  .  228 
The  North-East  Spends    His  Rage  ;   He  Now, 

Shut  up 151 

The  Path  by  which  we  Twain  Did  Go     ....  S3 

The  Phantom  Isles  are  Fading  From  the  Sea      .  3S1 

The  Poetry  of  Earth  is  Never  Dead 160 

The  Quality  of  Mercy  is  not  Strained      ....  380 

The  Rain  Has  Ceased,  and  in  my  Room     .     .     .  153 

The  Room  is  Old — The  Night  is  Cold  ....  265 
The  Sabbath  Day  was  Ending  in  a  Village  by  the 

Sea 371 

The  Salt  Wind  Blows  upon  my  Cheek     ....  326 

The  Scene  Was  More  Beautiful  Far  to  the  Eye  219 

The  Schoolboy  Wandering  Through  the  Wood  130 

The  Sea  is  Calm  To-night 224 

The  Sea  !  the  Sea  !  the  Open  Sea  ! 218 

The  Silver  Moon's  Enamored  Beam  .    .     .     .     .  114 

The  Soft  Green  Grass  is  Growing 260 

The  Spacious  Firmament  on  High 377 

The  Stormy  March  is  Come  at  Last  .     .     .     ,     .  114 

The  Stranger  wandering  in  the  Switzer's  Land   .  356 

The  Sunburnt  Mowers  are  in  the  Swarth    .     .     .  306 

The  Sun  from  the  East  tips  the  Mountains  with  Gold  313 

The  Sun  is  Low,  as  Ocean's  Flow 222 

The  Sunny  Italy  May  Boast 123 

The  Sun  Shines  Bright  on  our  Old  Kentucky  Home  24 


Page. 

The  Tattoo  Beats — the  Lights  are  Gone    .     .     .  186 

The  Time  Hath  Laid  his  Mantle  By 118 

The  Thoughts  are  Strange  that  Crowd  into  my 

Brain 149 

The  Topsails  Shiver  in  the  Wind       65 

The  Tree  of  Deepest  Root  is  Found 456 

The  Twilight  Hours,  Like  Birds,  Flew  By      ,     .  219 

The  Warder  looked  down  at  the  Dead  of  Night  2S9 

The  Water !  the  Water  ! 116 

The  Waters  Slept,  Night's  Silvery  veil  hung  Low  2S3 

The  Way  seems  Dark  about  Me — Overhead  .     .  367 

The  Weary  Night  is  O'er  at  Last 184 

The  Whip-poor-will  is  Calling 244 

The  White  Moon  Peeps  thro'  my  Window-blind  36 

The  Wildgrave  Winds  His  Bugle-horn  ....  210 

The  Wind  is  Blowing  fresh,  Kate 560 

The  Wind  is  up,  the  Field  is  Bare 314 

The  Wind,  the  Wandering  Wind 119 

The  Woman  was  Old  and  Ragged  and  Gray     .     .  290 

There  are  Days  of  Deepest  Sorrow 390 

There  are  Friends  that  we  Never  Forget    .     .     .  528 

There  are  Some  Things  hard  to  Understand    .     .  267 

There  are  Three  Lessons  I  Would  Write    .     .     .  394 

There  are  Three  Words  that  Sweetly  Blend   .     .  36 

There  is  a  Dungeon  in  whose  Dim,  Drear  Light  24 

There  is  a  Flower,  a  Little  Flower i;8 

There  is  a  Gloomy  Grandeur  in  the  Sun    .     .     .  142 

There  is  a  Land,  of  Every  Land  the  Pride  .     .     .  17 

There  is  a  Niland  on  a  River  Lying    ...         .  439 

There  is  a  Pleasure  in  the  Pathless  Woods      .     .  153 

There  is  a  Tide  in  the  Affairs  of  Men      ....  431 

There  is  a  World,  a  pure  Unclouded  Clime    .     .  271 

There  is  Many  a  Rest  in  the  Road  of  Life  .     .     .  390 

There  is  no  Death  !  The  Stars  go  Down  .  .  .  370 
There    is    no    Flock,    however    Watched    and 

Tended 370 

There  is  No  Time  Like  the  Old  Time,  when  You 

and  I  were  Young 92 

There  is  not  in  this  Wide  World  a  Valley  so  Sweet  65 

There  is  the  Hat 32S 

There  Lived  in  Gothic  Days,  as  Legends  Tell     .  144 

There's  a  Dear  little  Plant  that  grows  in  our  Isle  532 

There's  a  Good  time  Coming,  Boys 29S 

There's  a  Grim   one-horse   Hearse    in    a  jolly 

Round  Trot 333 

There's  a  letter  in  the  Candle 526 

There's  a  Little  Mischief-maker 407 

There's  a  Magical  Isle  in  the  River  of  Time    .     ,  256 

There's  a  Story  That's  Old 478 

There's  Grandeur  in  this  Sounding  Storm       .     .  142 

There's  no  Dearth  of  Kindness 281 

There's  no  Dew  Left  on  the  Daisies  and  Clover  403 

There's  nothing  Half  so  Charming 538 

There's  Somewhat  on  my  Breast,  Father  .  .  .  467 
There   was   a  time  when  Meadow,  Grove,  and 

Stream 361 

There  was  a  Tumult  in  the  City 242 

There  was  (not  Certain  When)  a  Certain  Preacher  470 


\ 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


6ai 


Page. 

These,  as  they  Change,  Almighty  Father,  These  140 

These  Thoughts,  O  Night!  Are  Thine   ....  142 

They  Carried  Pie  to  the  Parson's  House  .  .  .  464 
They   Come,    the    Merry    Summer    Months  of 

Beauty,  Song  and  Flowers 115 

They  Drive  Home  the  Cows  from  the  Pasture     .  405 

They  Grew  in  Beauty,  Side  by  Side 33 

They  Sin  who  tell  us  Love  can  Die 72 

This  is  the  Forest  Primeval.    The  Murmuring 

Pines  and  Hemlocks 120 

This  is  the  Ship  of  Pearl,  which,  Poets  Feign      .  239 

This  Region,  Surely,  is  not  the  Earth      ....  357 

This  Tale  is  True,  for  so  the  Records  Show    .    .  60 

This  was  the  Noblest  Roman  of  them  All  .     .     .  431 

This  Was  Too  Melancholy,  Father 417 

Those  Evening  B^lls  !  Those  Evening  Bells  !  .  256 
Thou  art  Gone  to  the  Crave — We  no  longer  de- 
plore  Thee 324 

Thou  Brightly  Glittering  Star  of  Even    ....  143 

Though  when  Other  Maids  Stand  By      ...     .  93 

Thou  Happy,  Happy  Elf! 435 

Thou  Lingering  Star,  with  Lessening  Ray       .    .  66 

Thou  Little  Bird,  Thou  Dweller  by  the  Sea    .     .  125 

Thou  Livest  in  the  Life  of  all  Good  Things    .     .  342 

Three  Fishers  went  Sailing  out  into  tlie  West      .  295 

Three  Poets,  in  three  Distant  ages  Born  .  .  .  346 
Through  the  Hushed  Air  the  Whifning  Shower 

Descends   . 140 

Thus  wilh  the  Year 139 

Thy  Fruit  Fu'.l  Well  the  Schoolboy  Knows      .     .  120 

Thy  Way,  not  Mine,  Oh  Lord 366 

Tim  Twinkleton  Was,  I  Would  Have  You  to 

Know 449 

Time  was  when  I  was  Free  as  Air 132 

'Tis  a  Fearful  Nigiit  in  the  Winter-time  ....  163 
'Tis  Beauteous  Night ;  the  Stars  Look  Brightly 

Down 25S 

Tis  Evening,  and  the  Round  Red  Sun  sinks  slowly 

in  the  West 310 

'Tis  Five-and-twenty  Years  To  day 99 

'Tis  Past !     No  More  the  Summer  Blooms      .     .  144 

'Tis  Said  That  Persia's  Baffled  King      ....  242 

'Tis  the  Last  Rose  of  Summer 75 

'Tis  the  Soft  Twilight.    Round  the  Shining  Fender  452 

'Tis  Thirty  Years  Since  Abel  Law 469 

'Tis  Years  since  Last  We  Met 484 

To  Claim  the  Arctic  Came  the  Sun 155 

To  draw  no  Envy,  Shakespeare,  on  Thy  name    .  347 

To  Him  Who,  in  the  Love  of  Nature,  Holds  .     .  112 

Toil  on  !  toil  on  !  Ye  Ephemeral  Train    ....  297 

Toll  for  the  Brave 222 

Toll  for  the  Dead,  Toll  !  Toll  ! 392 

Toll  for  Sam  Patch!  Sam  Patch  who  jumps  no  more  354 

Tom  Darling  was  a  Darling  Tom 465 

To  Sea  !  to  Sea !  the  Calm  is  O'er 226 

Too  Late,  Too  Late,  was  never  Said  ....  392 
To  Make  a  Plum-pudding  a  French  Count  Once 

Toole 442 


Page. 

Town,  Tower 436 

Torches  were  Blazing  clear 344 

Tread  Lightly,  Love,  When  Over  My  Head    .    .  93 

Tread  Softly,  Bow  the  Head 262 

Trifles  light  as  Air 429 

Turn,  Gentle  Hermit  of  the  Dale 76 

'Twas  at  the  Royal  Feast  for  Persia  won  .  .  ,  274 
'Twas  in  the  Sultry  Summer  time,  as  War's  Red 

Records  Show 53 

'Twas  Night — Our  Anchored  Vessel  Slept      .     .  154 

'Twas  on  Lake  Erie's  Broad  Expanse    ....  168 

'Twas  on  a  Winter  Morning 297 

'Twas  Early  Day,  and  Sunlight  Streamed  .     .     .  3S0 

'Twas  Late,  and  the  Gay  Company  Was  Gone  .  464 
'Twas  the  Night  Before  Christmas,  When  All 

Through  the  House 396 

'Twill  not  be  Long — this  W^earying  Commotion  366 

Two  Hands  upon  the  Breast 372 

Two  Little  Maidens  Went  One  Day 3S7 

Two  Pilgrims  from  the  Distant  Plain      .    .     .     .  no 

Two  or  Three  Dears,  and  Two  or  Three  Sweets  439 

Tying  Her  Bonnet  Under  Her  Chin 102 

Under  a  Spreading  Chestnut  tree 37 

Up  from  the  ^Meadows  rich  with  Corn     .     .     ,    -.  245 

Up  from  the  South  at  break  of  Day 181 

Upon  a  Rock  yet  Uncreate 455 

Upon  my  Knees,  What  doth  Your  speech  Import  429 

Upon  the  White  Sea-sand 333 

Up  the  airy  Mountain 413 

Up  with  the  Sun  in  the  Morning 30 

Various  and  Vast,  Sublime  in  all  its  Forms    .     .  237 

Victor  in  Poesy  !  Victor  in  Romance  !        ...  352 

Vital  spark  of  Heavenly  Flame 373 

Wail  for  Daedalus,  all  That  is  Fairest !       ...  276 

Wake,  Sisters,  wake  !  the  Day-star  Shines    .     .  361 

Wall,  no !  I  Can't  Tell  Where  he  Lives      ...  176 

Wandering  Away  on  Tired  Feet 290 

'  Wanted,  a  Boy  ! '  Well,  How  Glad  I  am  .     .     .  410 

Wave  after  wave  of  Greenness  rolling  Down  .     .  331 

Way  Down  upon  the  Swanee  Ribber     ....  29 

We  are  Little  Airy  Creatures 442 

We  are  not  Many— We  Who  Stood 187 

We  are  the  Sweet  Flowers 119 

We  are  Two  Travelers,  Roger  and  I      ....  41 

We  Bipeds,  Made  up  of  Frail  Clay 353 

We  Have  Been  Friends  Together 78 

We  Knew  it  Would  Rain,  for  all  the  Mom     .     .  153 

We  Mourn  for  those  whose  Laurels  Fade  .     .     .  341 

We  Parted  in  Silence,  we  Parted  by  Night      .     ,  109 

We  Pledged  our  Hearts,  my  Love  and  I    .     .    .  loi 

We  sat  by  the  River,  You  and  I 580 

Werther  had  a  Love  for  Charlotte 467 

We  Walked  Along,  While  Bright  and  Red     .    .  139 

We  were  Crowded  in  the  Cabin 220 

Well,  I've  found  the  model  Church — I  worshipped 

ihfcre  To-day 363 


632 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


Page. 

Well,  Claudius,  are  the  Forces 419 

What  Beauties  Does  Flora  Disclose 148 

What  Chan;^e  has  Made  the  Pastures  Sweet  .     .  103 

What  Does  Little  Birdie  Say 400 

What   Heavy-hoofed  Coursiers  the  Wilderness 

Roam 172 

What  Hidest  Thou  in  Thy  Treasure-caves  and 

Cells 217 

What  Household  thoughts  around  thee  as  their 

Shrine 381 

What  is  the  Meaning  of  the  Song 548 

What !  Irving  !  thrice  Welcome,  warm  Heart  and 

fine  Brain 347 

What  might  be  Done  if  Men  were  Wise  .  .  .  296 
What  needs  my  Shakespeare  for  his  Honored 

Bones 348 

What!  Robbed    the    Mail    at   Midnight!  We'll 

trail  them  down,  You  bet 333 

Whatever  I  Do  and  Whatever  I  Say      .     ...  451 

What  Stands  upon  the  Highland? 141 

What's  This  Dull  Town  to  me 91 

When  a  Child  I  Liv'd  at  Lincoln,  witli  my  Parents 

at  the  Farm 542 

When  Barren  Doubt  Like  a  Late-coming  Snow  35 

When  Britain  First  at  Heaven's  Command     .     .  246 

When  Chill  November's  surly  Blast 326 

When  First  I  saw  Sweet  Peggy 80 

When  First  the  Flame  of  Day 151 

When  for  Me  the  silent  Oar 382 

When  Freedom  From  her  Mountain  Height  .     .  241 

When  Hope  lies  Dead  within  the  Heart    .     .     .  325 

When  I  Beneath  the  Cold  Red  Earth  am  Sleeping  274 

When  Israel,  of  the  Lord  Beloved 373 

When  Love  with  Unconfined  Wings       ....  96 

When  on  the  Mount  the  Prophet  Stood      .     .     .  554 

When  Other  Lips  and  Other  Hearts 512 

When  on  the  breath  of  Autumn  Breeze  .     .     .     .  313 

When  Princely  Hamilton's  Abode 197 

When  Sparrows  Build  and  the  Leaves  Break 

Forth 81 

When  That  My  Mood  is  Sad,  and  in  the  Noise   .  284 

When  That  the  Fields  Put  on  Their  Gay  Attire  .  127 

When  the  Autumn  Leaves  are  Falling  ....  570 
When  the  Black-lettered  List  to  the  Gods  was 

Presented 34 

When  the  Hounds  of  Spring  are  on  Winter's 

Traces 581 

When  the  Lessons  and  Tasks  are  all  Ended  .     .  397 

When  the  Mild  Weather  Came 236 

When  the  Swallows  Homeward  Fly 520 

When  the  Warm  Sun  That  Brings 115 

When  Topewell  Thought  Fit  From  the  World  to 

Retreat 439 

When  troubled  in  Spirit,  when  weary  of  Life  .     .  317 

When  we  Hear  the  music  Ringing 364 

When  we  Two  Parted 85 

When  Winter  Winds  are  Piercing  Chill      .     .     .  134 

Whence  come  those  Shrieks  so  Wild  and  Shrill  .  293 


Page. 

Where  are  the  Friends  of  my  Youth 492 

Where  art  thou  Loveliest,  O  Nature,  Tell !      .     .  316 

Where  Did  You  Come  From,  Baby  Dear  .     .     .  398 

Where  is  now  the  Merry  Party 540 

Where  the  Remote  Bermudas  Ride 226 

Which  i:i  the  Wind  That  Brings  the  Cold   ...  135 

"  Which  Shall  it  Be  ?  Which  Shall  it  Be  ?  "      .     .  22 

While  Moonhght,  Silvering  all  the  Walls     .     .     .  129 
While  Quaker  Folks  Were  Quakers  Still,  Some 

Fifty  Years  Ago 454 

While  with  a  Strong  yet  Gentle  hand    ....  349 

Whither, 'Midst  Falling  Dew 129 

Who  Puts  Oiip  at  Der  Pest  Hotel 443 

Who's  That  Tapping  at  the  Garden  Gate  .    .     .  574 

Why  all  this  Toil  for  Triumphs  of  an  Hour      .     ,  434 

Why  don't  I  work?  Well,  sir,  Will  you  .     ...  304 
"  Why  is  the  Forum  Crowded  ?  What  Means  this 

Stir  in  Rome?" 173 

Why  Should  I,  With  a  Mournful,  Morbid  Spleen  125 

Wild  Offspring  of  a  Dark  and  Sullen  Sire  .    .     .  121 

Wild  was  the  Night,  Yet  a  Wilder  Night    ...  59 

Willie,  Fold  Your  Little  Hands 184 

Will  the  New  Year  Come  To-night,  Mama?  I'm 

Tired  of  Waiting  So 266 

Willow!  in  thy  Breezy  Moan 119 

With  Deep  AlTectlon 448 

With  fingers  Weary  and  Worn 295 

With  Pleavy  Pack  upon  his  Back 4S0 

Within  a  Thick  and  Spreading  Hawthorn  Bush  .  129 

Within  this  Sober  realm  of  leafless  Trees    .    .    .  327 

Without  Your  Showers 126 

With  silent  awe  I  hail  the  sacred  Mom  •    •    .    •  371 

Woodman,  Spare  that  Tree 264 

Would  Ye  be  Taught,  Yc  Feathered  Throng  .     .  90 
Would  You  Know  Why  I  Summoned  You  To- 
gether    433 

Ye  little  Snails 159 

Ye  Mai  iners  of  England 208 

Ye  Nymphs  of  Tolyma  !  Begin  the  Song  .     .     .  365 

Ye  Shepherds,  give  Ear  to  my  lay 73 

Ye  Sons  of  Freedom,  Wake  to  Glory    ....  245 

Ye  stars  that  look  at  Me  To-night 95 

Yes,  Dear  one,  to  the  Envied  Train 95 

"  Yes,  I  answered  You  last  Night" 67 

Yes,  surely  the  Bells  in  the  Steeple 458 

Yes,  'tis  Emilia  :—By-and-By— She's  Dead     .     .  430 

Yes,  Wife,  I'd  be  a  Throned  King 65 

"  You   have  heard,"  said  a  Youth  to  his  Sweet- 
heart, who  Stood 103 

You  have  read  of  the  Moslem   Palace    .     ...  375 

You  know  we  French  stormed  Ratisbon    .     .     .  246 
You  may  notch  it  on  de  Palin's  as  a  mighty  resky 

Plan 262 

Young  Ben  he  was  a  nice  Young  Man    ....  470 

Young  Neuha  plunged  into  the  Deep,  and  he      .  201 

Young  Rory  O'More  Courted  Kathleen  Bawn    .  82 

Your  Wedding-ring  wears  thin,  Dear  Wife      .    .  24 


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